


Antiques of Ours

by editorbit



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, Tom loves it, antique shop au, who would have thought, wholesome content for once, will’s an old soul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23618338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: Will owns an antique shop because he’s a certified old soul who loves old things. Tom doesn’t like rain.
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Tom Blake, Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 65
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

The bell above the door rings uncomfortably loud as he slips into the small shop. It’s an old, sizeable thing, which seems to almost defy gravity where it swings wildly on a tiny hook. The thought of it falling on his head crosses his mind - a certain concussion - but to his relief the bell eventually stills and continues to hang on the wall. The ringing stops with it a moment later and an almost just as uncomfortable silence replaces it. 

Throwing a glance around the almost eerily quiet room, he realises he’s alone. Despite the unlocked door and the "open" sign in the window, it almost feels wrong to be standing in here, like he picked the lock on the door and waltzed right into someone’s home. There’s just something about the room that feels homely and personal, and Tom feels very much like he’s standing uninvited in someone’s home. 

The fact that he’s dripping all over the floor like Myrtle after a mud bath doesn’t help. 

Still, what really makes this place seem like someone’s home is the room itself, if one just ignore the cash register on the counter, the unnatural amount of shelves - for a home at least - and the price tags scattered about. It has a certain aura; a homey, welcoming one that makes him want to sit in the dull pink, flower printed armchair and read one of the many books from the nearby shelves. He’s never been one to read much, but the old feel to the room makes him want to do something suitable for the time he feels as if he’s gone back to. It just doesn’t seem right sitting in one of the cushioned chairs by the dining table and whipping out his phone. 

The floorboards creak under his feet and he feels even more like an intruder as he tiptoes further into the shop. He avoids stepping onto any of the carpets - patterned and framed with tassels - with his wet shoes. Too late does he realise just how dirty they are as well and he’s halfway through the shop by then, standing between a shelf full of old toys with their paint flaking off, and another full of records and other random trinkets. A trail of wet mud leads back where he came from. He doubts the mop in the kitchen section he passed by a moment ago is usable. 

"Hello, can I help you?"

The voice scares him more than he likes to admit, which he realises is stupid because why would anyone leave an antique shop unattended of all places. 

The man - his name tag is too little and too far away for him to read - stands a few metres away, a smile on his kind looking face, and Tom wonders how he could have snuck up on him like that when he himself had sounded like a right elephant stomping through the place. Then again, he could have been around the entire time as far as he’s concerned. 

He’s got a certain look to him that seems to fit right in among all the old, elegant pieces of antiques, with his almost historical facial structure, soft knitted sweater and khaki trousers. Tom can easily imagine him enjoying a good book in one of the armchairs, or perhaps standing by the window and watching the rain, a record playing in the background and a cup of tea nestled in his hands. 

He opens his mouth to respond, to tell him he’s just here to get out of the rain and wait until the worst of it is over, as that is exactly why he’s there, though he cuts himself short. The least he can do right now after the mess he’s made is at least pretend to be interested in buying something. He’s fairly sure he’s got a few pounds on him and his mother would probably appreciate a little gift of some kind. Maybe some earrings? 

"No, thank you. I’m just looking," is what he does say, hand waving in the direction of one of the shelves. "Alright, I’ll be by the counter if you need me." The man doesn’t move immediately, seemingly stuck somewhere between walking away and staying, between speaking up and staying silent. Tom is at this point occupying himself with a random record from the upper shelf, but doesn’t fail to notice the slightly concerned glances. He’s fully aware of the fact that he looks like a drowned rat. 

The man lingers for a moment, but eventually leaves, floorboards creaking under his nice, brown shoes. 

Outside it’s still raining cats and dogs and the amount of time he’s spending between those two shelves is borderline ridiculous. He skips through the records by vaguely familiar artists, toys with a once functional old radio placed on a small, wobbly coffee table and sits down to see what else there is to look at. If he leans enough to the left he can spot the man by the counter. 

Eyebrows furrow in concentration and gentle hands toy with something or another. It must be interesting, judging by the lines on the man’s forehead. Even as Tom squints, hand on the floor to support himself as his body tilts further and further to the left, he still can’t see what it is. 

He has to admit he’s always been a bit inquisitive, annoyingly so according to his brother. He’s gone on a few adventures into his brother’s room over the years, snooping around in his closet, under his bed and in his drawers. They never really ended well as he’d somehow always leave a trace behind, whether it be an open drawer or a stolen - borrowed - comic book left on the kitchen table. Though most of his nosiness is shown through the excessive amount of questions, this according to his mother. Not to mention the prattling, his brother had said, the never ending prattling. 

"What’s that?" The question slips past his lips without intention and as a pair of eyes meet his own, he realises it’s too late to retreat now. The man’s eyes visibly soften, brows relaxing and a hint of a smile forms on his lips as the concentration vanishes. The way he looks at him sends an oddly warm sensation through his otherwise cold body and Tom forgets he’s crouched behind a shelf like an actual creep for a moment, wet hair stuck to his forehead and clothes damp. Eventually he does get a hold of himself and hurries to stand. 

"Some rings we just got in from an auction up in Colchester." He stops at that, but Tom can tell he wants to go on. "You can look at them if you want," he says, most definitely noticing his squinting. "Though I haven’t decided on a price yet." Doesn’t matter, Tom thinks, knowing he’s barely got ten bob on him, hardly enough for old rings. 

Once again he is very aware of how dirty his worn shoes are. Would it be odd if he took his shoes off? Well, he thinks to himself, it’s either that or dirtying even more of the floor. Without a second thought he slips right out of his shoes and wanders over to the counter to stand in front of him. The first thought that comes to mind is that he looks even better up close. He brushes the thought away before it can get any further. 

There’s something about him that makes Tom feel oddly comforted and safe. Maybe it’s the gentle eyes looking at him as if he’s a friend, the welcoming, friendly impression he gives him or the calm movements he makes as he hands over one of the rings. The sleeve of his sweater rides up to reveal a watch. Like the ring, it’s old and worn. Tom picks the ring out of his hand, skin barely touching his palm, and looks up to smile politely at him. 

Will, his name tag says in fancy writing and the name fits just right. Simple, yet quaint and charming. He looks like a "Will". 

He turns the ring over in his hand and watches the light reflect off the few clean spots. Something’s engraved on the inside, but it’s unreadable, letters long since faded and dirtied. Will’s lips part, as if to speak, but they quickly close. "How old are they?" Tom asks as he continues toying with the ring. Absentmindedly he slips it onto his finger - his ring finger. It doesn’t fit and when he goes to take it off, it slips right off and falls into his other hand. The eyes on him visibly light up with something Tom can only describe as enthusiasm.

"A hundred years or so, I believe. I’ve yet to read the documents they came with." Will sets down the other ring and watches him slip the ring onto his middle finger. It fits like a glove, staying as he gives his hand a little shake. "It’s very dirty, innit?" 

"Yeah, I think it’s blood." Tom is quick to pull it off again at that, holding it out between two fingers. Will chuckles, letting him give it back again. "I’m only joking, don’t worry. I think it’s dirt and you know, time." An "oh" forms on his lips, and he watches Will scoop the rings up and place them aside. The smile he gives him is warm, friendly and very much contagious. 

"Anyway, I’m sorry if that bored you. I can get a little carried away sometimes." Tom is immediately ready to tell him that it’s fine, that it’s very interesting and that he’d love to hear more, but he doesn’t get the chance. "Did you need help with finding anything?" Once again he is reminded of the fact that he’s been here for like an hour by now and the only thing he’s been doing is standing by the shelves like an idiot - and a right creepy idiot at that. 

"I was thinking about getting my mum something actually," he says and Will smiles sweetly. "I can help you with that. What were you thinking about getting her?" Tom finally breaks eye contact to dig around in his pockets. "Nothing too special. A figurine or some earrings, something like that." A few coins is all he finds, counting five in total. Five pounds. What’s he going to buy with that? A hundred year old dust? 

Will is silent for a moment, seemingly counting with him. "Does she wear brooches or pins? We recently got some nice flower ones." He disappears behind the counter so suddenly Tom nearly jumps. "I haven’t had the time to put them out yet and price each of them. They’re in very good shape. Early 1950s I think." It’s silent again and Tom is tempted to lean over and check on him. "Sorry, like I said, I get carried away." 

He appears as suddenly as he disappeared and this time Tom does jump, just a little bit. "There’s this." A small pin is placed in front of him on the counter in a gentle, soft movement. A rose, soft red and gold in colour. It glistens in the light from the lamp hanging above them. "And this." The second one is smaller and Tom immediately recognises the flower. A faded, yet still bright, pink cherry blossom pin is gently placed beside the first one. 

Will doesn’t get any time to continue as Tom points that one out. "She would love this one. We’ve got a few cherry trees, you see. She always complains about the flowers never blooming long enough. Says the cherries don’t look as pretty." He stops himself from continuing. "Anyway, how much is it?"

"Five pounds."

Tom dumps the coins onto the counter. He doesn’t catch the small smile on Will’s face as he takes them into his own hand, one by one. "I hope this one lives up to the real thing, then." Putting the money away he gets to wrapping the small pin and putting it in a small bag. He folds it neatly and Tom feels a little bad as he shoves it into his wet pocket. "I’ll let you know if it does," he says before he can catch himself, but Will smiles and tells him he hopes she likes it. 

"I’m sorry about the floor," Tom says as he’s pulling on his shoes. He eyes the dried down trail of mud and hesitantly meets Will’s eyes. "It’s fine. I haven’t washed the floor in weeks. It’s in need of a good scrub." He smiles at him and it has Tom feeling all sorts of things - gratitude being one of them. 

As Tom walks through the shop he does his best to step only where he’s stepped before, avoiding making any new footprints. By the door he turns to say goodbye, smiling as he does. Will smiles and waves, telling him to have a nice day. And once Tom’s outside he barely acknowledges the rain.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time he reaches the door, he’s soaked to the bone. Eager to get inside and change out of his drenched clothes, he slips right through the door before he can open it all the way. His lined denim jacket has done nothing but soak up the rain and hangs now heavy on his shoulders. He’s quick to slip it off. It drips an obscene amount of water onto the floor, as well as his already soaked shoes, as he does. 

"Did you have a nice swim?" 

He looks up from the puddle already formed on the floor to see his brother, Joe, standing in the doorway. Leaned against the doorframe, he watches Tom kick off his shoes and hang up his dripping jacket, a cup of something - coffee probably - in his hands and a smug smile plastered on his face. He’s reminded of the warning he’d gotten earlier that day as he was about to head out the door, and promptly ignores the amused gaze following him as he pulls out the small bag from his jacket, as well as his very much wet phone. 

"What took you so long?" Joe takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing him up and down with amused, yet slightly more concerned eyes. Tom too takes a good look at himself; his now dark jeans that are going to be a pain to peel off, his wet socks and his thin, damp sweater clinging to his skin. "I thought you said your shift ended at four." 

"Stopped by somewhere to buy something," he replies. He leaves out the part about seeking shelter from the rain, mainly to avoid that smug look following him around for the rest of the day. Joe has never admitted to it, but he loves to be right. He can spot the glint of pure satisfaction in his eyes that he gets every time, not to mention that smug smile. "For mum," he adds as he slips past him in the door. 

He pauses by the stairs and turns, noticing the wet footprints he’s left as he does. "Where is she?" 

Joe’s voice comes from the kitchen now. "The neighbours’." There’s the sound of cups clinking and cupboards opening and shutting, and when he returns downstairs a while later, clothes dry, hair a right mess - but not stuck to his skull like before - and phone set to dry, he’s met with a warm cup of his favourite tea.

•••

Tom passes by the small antique shop on the corner several times over the next few days. In the morning on his way to work, he’ll almost stop moving at all at the sight of the familiar, heavy door and the "open" sign in the window. He’ll take his sweet time, steps dawdling and measured as he eyes the windows with visible interest. Though by the time he’s passed by, he’ll have no recollection of anything on display in the window. He’ll spot Will standing by the counter, his full attention on something in his hands, somewhere among the shelves and furniture with a customer, while other times he won’t spot him at all.

On his way back from work, he’ll pause by the shop, hands buried in his pockets and gaze on a random lamp in the window. He’ll debate on whether he should go in or leave and go home this day as well. More often than not is it the latter. Rarely does he have any extra money on him, and when he does there’s the question on whether or not he wants to be spending it on antiques. 

He does the only logical thing; asking his brother for money. "What for?" Joe asks - rightfully so - and gives him a confused, almost analysing look, as if he can find the answer to that by looking at him long enough. "Nothing special." Tom shrugs and watches how his eyebrows furrow. He can practically hear the cogs turning in his head. 

"Is it alcohol?"

"No. I just haven’t decided yet, alright?" he explains. "I’ll pay you back by next week." Joe sighs dramatically, hand fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. He digs around in it for a moment - probably counting the damage he might take - before looking up at him. "Alright, how much?" 

The next time he passes by the shop on the corner, it’s a Thursday afternoon and he’s off work. With the original plan for the day only being shutting himself in his room and watching tv shows until some ungodly hour, he cancelled them without a second thought. The day is still young, he thinks as he slowly comes to a halt just by the door. He spots no one inside, neither Will nor anyone else, but walks right in anyway. The sign in the window said "open" after all, just like last time. He must be hiding somewhere in there this time too. 

The ringing nearly scares him half to death, and he’s painfully reminded of the church bell of a thing hanging above the door. He quickly slips inside, heart racing and slightly more concerned it might actually fall on his head today. Luck isn’t always on his side it seems, and he’s come to realise that a while ago. It doesn’t fall though, leaving him only with an echo in his head. 

Other than a painfully loud ringing and an almost concussion, he’s met with the sound of music. A song Tom is sure he’s heard before at some point plays from somewhere further into the shop, but he still doesn’t spot anyone. No one stands behind the counter, hands busy with something of interest, no one stands by the wall towards the left, fixing crooked paintings and picking up fallen black and white photographs, and no one sits in the forest green sofa, reading documents with furrowed eyebrows. 

Does he say something? Ask for help? 

He settles with following the music, though not before making sure his shoes are clean. He walks past new shelves he didn’t see last time and takes a few moments to eye the content of them. The music changes as he does, making him look up from an especially interesting looking figurine, and that’s when he sees him.

Will.

He’s seated on the floor, records scattered around him. A record player sits on the coffee table beside him, playing a song he’s never heard now. He doesn’t spot Tom right away, eyes glued to the back of a record, presumably the one playing. 

When he does, the corners of his lips turn up, forming the most genuine smile Tom believes he has ever seen on anyone. It makes him feel something or another, deep within his chest. It spreads throughout his entire body and fades slowly. He can’t help but smile as well. 

Will reaches over to lower the volume. "Did your mother like it?" He nearly forgets what he’s asking about, close to asking what he means, but then it dawns on him.

"Yeah, she loved it. Has worn it ever since actually," he says and, if even possible, Will’s smile grows. "I’m glad," he says and Tom can tell he means that. If anything it’s an understatement, judging by the way his eyes do that thing again. They light up like two little stars and Tom feels a little lost for a moment, stuck in one spot and words not forming any sentences. 

"Tom." Will looks up from the record he’d fixated his gaze on a moment ago, all the while Tom had been standing here like an idiot, once again. He looks slightly confused and it’s only then he continues. "I’m Tom, is what I meant," he explains. He watches Will stand, leaving the record on the floor with the others. A hand is reached out for him to shake. 

"I’m Will." Tom takes his hand. It’s warm, soft and much bigger than his own. "I know," is what he says to that, and he promptly ignores the heat spreading up his arm, as well as across his face. "The name tag," he clarifies. "What are you listening to?" he adds, too quick to be natural. Will’s smile is enough to erase all ounce of nervousness in his body. 

"You don’t know?" 

A hint of a grin forms on his lips. Tom doubts himself for a moment. Should he? No, he’s fairly sure he’s never heard this before in his life, he thinks to himself as Will goes to gather all the records up from the floor. The one playing, he assumes, is held up in front of him. It takes him a second, but he soon recognises it as the same one he’d been staring holes into a few days prior. It might have been to occupy himself and look at least a smidge normal, but he recognises it. 

Jethro Tull. The name rings no other bells. 

He opens his mouth to explain that he’s never heard of them actually, perhaps even that he owns no record player, but pauses. Oh. The beginning of a grin, the teasing tone underlying his voice and the familiar record. Will’s messing with him. Much too late he laughs. 

"Either way, you have good taste." He ignores the hint of pride welling up in his chest. "This is one of my favourites. I shouldn’t be listening to them, but it’s such a shame, leaving them on the shelf to collect dust." Tom mindlessly nods. 

Will walks past him, records clutched to his chest. He smells like paper of old classics, tea with milk, familiar cologne and Tom really doesn’t mean to smell him. "Were you looking for anything in particular today?" he hears from further behind him. "I’m sorry if I’ve been wasting your time."

"Don’t be," Tom says and he’s not sure where this sudden boost of confidence comes from. "I like it here, with you." It’s silent for a moment and as he turns, he’s a little surprised to see it’s Will’s turn to get flustered. At least he thinks he is, with his slightly stiffer posture and unnecessary sorting of the records. Either that or Tom’s completely mucked up. 

"How much is that record?" he asks unconsciously. 

Not too long after does he find himself by the counter again, item he never knew he needed - definitely doesn’t need - in front of him and pocket much lighter. The awkwardness - at least on Tom’s part - is gone. It didn’t last longer than a few seconds really, as Will seemingly came to his senses and smiled. The comforting aura he gives never seems to leave much room for any awkwardness, much to Tom’s relief. 

He takes a look around as Will puts the money away and gets to putting the record in a bag, mainly to look at something else other than Will’s hands, as well as to look at some of the war antiques on the left of the counter. He eyes the items through the glass, spotting the familiar rings among other pieces of jewellery. Absentmindedly he goes to open the glass doors and get a closer look, maybe even try them on. They don’t budge, and not a moment later does he notice the lock. Will doesn’t seem to notice and he pulls his hands back and diverts his gaze somewhere else. 

"You put out the brooches?" he asks, even though he can clearly see he has. "A day or so ago I got around to it, finally. They’re very pretty, aren’t they?" They’re all lined up and on display by the counter. Roses, lilies, daisies and many more. He nearly chokes on his own spit at the price. 

Thirty-five pounds each. 

Will looks slightly concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Is this the price?" Tom asks and points to the tag. It can’t be. Maybe it’s three fifty each. "Yes, I think so," Will responds, peeking over the counter. Or maybe it is thirty-five after all. He looks up to see a silent "oh" forming on Will’s lips. "Don’t worry about it. Honestly."

Tom owes him thirty pounds now. His payment will be gone before it can even reach his bank account at this rate.

"I’m serious." There’s a warm hand on his shoulder and it seems to almost magically calm him. "Don’t worry about it. Consider it my gift, from me to you." He smiles a friendly, sincere smile and Tom only nods, making no move to argue back. The hand is then gone from his shoulder, leaving only a slight tingling sensation behind. 

Tom gets his bag and heads out the door, feeling a little lightheaded. Fortunately the bell doesn’t fall on his head on the way out, but as he sees Will smile and wave at him through the window, it might as well have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jethro Tull is a British rock band formed in 1967
> 
> Also no one cares but the song I listened to the entire time was Aqualung by Jethro Tull


	3. Chapter 3

Tom buys a record player.

He had stopped by a music shop on his way home from work. By then it had barely been a day since he got his monthly payment, and he was already back to carrying pocket change. A young man with a faint German accent had greeted him from behind the counter and helped him find the bulky thing now sitting on his dresser.

It’s light yellow in colour and doesn’t quite fit in, neither aesthetically nor physically speaking. On the other hand, it had been the cheapest one they had. So, with very empty pockets but very few regrets, he had dragged the thing home with him. Joe, the nosy bastard, had seemingly sensed his presence - or heard him fumbling with the door - and popped his head in to ask what he’d been up to. Tom had only dropped what little money he had left into his hand and disappeared up the stairs. 

The record lies beside it on the dresser, untouched since the day he bought it. He goes to pick it up, runs his fingers over the cover and reads the back. The names are nothing but words on paper, but he pulls off the sleeve and pops it on. A moment of fiddling with it and turning some buttons, music finally starts playing. It’s the song Will had been listening to. The one Will likes. Maybe even his favourite. 

So he leaves it playing. He turns the volume up and lies down on his bed, hands folded on his chest and eyes closed. The music fills his ears and fuels his imagination. 

He can imagine Will listening to this very song, again and again. He can imagine him coming home from a long day of work and putting on a record. His record player is much nicer than his own. It fits perfectly in his home among the shelves full of books, the records discarded on his antique coffee table and the comfortable armchair by the window. The sun slips through the cracked open window and drapes the pages of the book in his lap in sunlight. If he lets go of the book to drink his nearly forgotten cup of tea the light breeze flips the page, and Will smiles because he just finished reading the last page. 

He can imagine him eventually turning it off, only to continue humming it to himself as he sits outside in his garden. He sits in the grass, back against a tree and eyes closed. The sun hits his skin and it almost seems to glow. Tom would very much like to be there with him, lie there in the grass and listen to the sound of his humming and his fingers tapping the rhythm of the music in his head. 

"Tom?"

He’s startled awake and for a moment he’s unaware of where he is, mind somewhere far away. "Will?" As his eyes adjust to the brightness, he spots the now silent record player on his dresser and then his brother standing in the door. He doesn’t stand there very long though, inviting himself right in. He doesn’t bother commenting on it. Isn’t going to stop him anyway.

"Who’s Will?" he asks, tone peculiarly curious. 

"No one." Joe eyes him for a few long seconds before returning his gaze to the record player that had caught his attention. It reaches dangerously far past the edge of his dresser. "What do you want?" he continues, watching him pick up the record sleeve and inspect it. 

"You owe me money."

"I gave you money." 

"Yeah, but not enough."

Tom thinks of his very much empty pockets and eyes the bulky record player. A hundred pounds that thing had cost him. A hundred. For a glorified suitcase he doesn’t even need. Why hadn’t he just hung the record up on the wall like everyone else? No one actually listens to records, do they? 

Will does though, which of course he does, but he’s special. Will owns an antique shop, wears knitted sweaters and reads documents about a hundred year old rings for fun. Will is an old soul; comforting, welcoming and familiar in an odd, indescribable way. Tom is smitten and he knows it. 

"Well, I don’t have any," he says, letting his head hit the pillow. "Ask again in a month."

•••

Another few days pass by and once again does Tom find himself stood outside the small shop, hands in his pockets and eyes fixated on the man inside. Will is standing by the counter today, eyes bright and filled with enthusiasm as he speaks to the customer - a young woman Tom doesn’t recognise with curly hair - in front of him. The dull pink, flower printed armchair sits on the floor beside her, presumably the topic of the conversation. Too bad, he thinks, he liked the look of the armchair where it stood. Where will Will sit and read in Tom’s mind now?

Finally tearing his gaze off him and getting to his senses, perhaps gathering some confidence as well, he pulls the door open and slips inside. The loud bell above the door pulls an embarrassingly high pitched noise from his throat and he quickly steps away from the door like he’s been burned. So much for gathering confidence. 

"Hello, Tom."

Will’s tone is kind and friendly and with no time to recover from his near death experience, Tom only smiles in response. He lingers for a moment as Will redirects his attention to the woman, but he soon continues on further into the shop. It is as he stops to look at some pretty teacups displayed on a table - which his mother might have liked - he realises the two aren’t speaking English, but rather French. 

Will speaks French?

The conversation doesn’t go on much longer and Tom only gets to hear a few sentences. What any of them mean is beyond him, but that doesn’t stop him from listening in. There is one word he does understand though; goodbye. Glancing up from the teacups, he watches the woman leave, armchair in tow. She struggles with the door and Tom is worried the bell might fall on her head, and Will is looking ready to go help her, but a moment later she’s gone. 

"What brings you here today?" Will asks, walking around the counter to walk up to him. The sleeves of his sweater, a dark rust coloured one this time, are pushed up to his elbows to expose his forearms, as well as the watch on his wrist. If Tom looks at his hands too long, Will doesn’t notice. 

"Oh, I just stopped by to look around," Tom says, and for God knows what reason adds; "and to see you." It slips past his lips before he can stop himself and it’s too late to take it back now. A hint of surprise mixes with the smile on Will’s face, like he didn’t see it coming, but it vanishes fairly quickly. "Well, you’re welcome to do so anytime," he says and Tom’s breath gets caught in his throat for a moment. 

They don’t say much to each other after that, letting the silence take over. It’s not an uncomfortable silence though, thick with the expectations and pressure of polite small talk and an occasional, safe joke. Tom wanders around the warm, cozy shop, jacket left to lie on the counter and sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He eyes the paintings of pretty flowers and unknown people on the walls, toys with random trinkets he finds tucked in the far back of shelves and sits in the comfortable sofa to flip through a vaguely familiar poetry book left on the floor. By William Blake of all people. 

Tom watches Will. 

When he doesn’t disappear into the back, he adjusts the plates and cutlery on the dining table, reorganises the records and flips through documents behind the counter. Tom watches his eyebrows furrow in concentration, lips pressed together and lines forming on his forehead. Every once in a while his lips will part, eyes finding Tom sitting on the sofa with his nose in the poetry book, and even from out of the corner of his eye, he can tell Will wants to say something. Will’s lips are closed and his eyes are back on the documents though as soon as Tom dares to look at him. 

So he closes the book, putting it away on the nearest shelf. "What are you reading?" he asks and greatly enjoys the look on Will’s face. His eyes do that thing again. Tom wishes they always did that. If the stars shone as bright as Will’s eyes did when talking about antiques, Tom would be an astronomer - or perhaps he shouldn’t be reading poetry. 

"The documents on the rings I told you about." He stops there, pressing his lips together to keep the words in. He doesn’t want to bore him, Tom guesses. "What do they say?" he asks, tone interested and genuine, because he wants to know. Will could tell him about rocks and he’d want to know more. The pure enthusiasm in his eyes just does something to him. Joe would probably have a good laugh if he were here. Tom interested in old things, he’d say, he wouldn’t even be able to tell you who our last prime minister was. 

Will seems to hesitate and Tom only scoots over on the sofa, patting the spot beside him.

•••

Tom doesn’t notice the time that passes by. Once Will starts speaking, time might as well have ceased to exist.

Will sits beside him with the papers in his lap, but he doesn’t look at them. He knows it all by heart it seems, almost as if he’s lived what he’s talking about. As if he himself has wandered through the trenches of the Great War and dirtied the rings himself with the dirt and grime. As if he has faced all the trauma and misery of the war and lived to tell the tale. Staring into those eyes as he speaks is like looking back in time, like his eyes are remnants of something much older.

Tom soaks it all up like a sponge, taking in the scent of the tea Will had brought them who knows how long ago, every word he says and the way Will’s eyes never leave his own.

"I don’t like rats that much," Tom says at the mention of the many, many rats. "A mate of mine used to own one, right? Escaped and bit his ear right off one night." Will laughs at that, and Tom loves the sound, wants to hear it again and again. 

His cup is nearly full and the tea is cold. It’s only then he realises how much time has passed. Three hours. He counts the hours on Will’s watch. 

"I should get going," he says, though he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t. Outside it’s cold and almost dark as day slowly becomes night. Inside it’s warm and comfortable, time seemingly a nonexistent concept. Will is inside as well. Still, he rises out of his seat and so does Will. He smiles at him and goes to get his jacket before hesitantly walking to the door, feet heavy and resistant.

"I’ll drive you."

Tom nearly walks into the door.

•••

"Where have you been?" Tom tears his gaze off the car disappearing out of sight, hand he’d just been waving lingering in the air, to look at Joe standing in the doorway. He lacks the smug smile and the amused look in his eyes, looking rather concerned instead. "You’ve been gone for hours."

"Just lost track of time is all. I was in a shop." He stops by the mirror on the wall to fix some rogue strands of hair. Joe gives him an up and down, analysing look as he so often does, but doesn’t say anything else. He disappears back into the living room and Tom follows, making a beeline for the sofa. As he sinks into the cushions, a sigh of contentment escapes his lips. 

"Who dropped you off?" Tom tilts his head to the side, not really having paid attention. Smiling at the ceiling, all he had on his mind was the scent of paper and tea, knitted sweaters, friendly smiles and Will’s wonderful voice echoing in his head. Judging by the look on Joe’s face, he must be thinking he’s either drunk or high, or maybe a bit of both. Perhaps he is, in some way. 

"Will."


	4. Chapter 4

The small shop on the corner is closed for several days the following week, to Tom’s utmost disappointment.

Three days, Tom counts. Three days in a row does he walk past the "closed" sign in the window, steps slowing down to barely there movements of his feet and eyes staring longingly through the glass. Inside it’s dark and he sees no one but his own reflection. It’s with a heavy heart he tears his gaze away from the furrowed brows and the downturned lips in the empty window and trudges home. 

By day one, the courage and confidence he had been building up over the past few days has withered away. The anticipation and excitement residing in his chest sink down to his stomach and become disappointment. Tomorrow, he thinks as he walks down street after street, steps heavy against the pavement, tomorrow he’ll be there. By the time he reaches the door, he has planned to stop by after work.

By day two, the disappointment in his stomach has grown heavier and heavier, to the point he feels borderline nauseous. He must be looking just like he feels. As he sits and picks at his dinner, his mother puts a hand on his forehead, comments on the lack of colour in his cheeks and asks him if he feels alright. As he sits on his bed, eyeing the record player on his dresser, Joe appears in the door for a moment, looking rather concerned. As he walks down the stairs a while later to find something or another to eat, even Myrtle seems to notice the change in his mood, getting out of her bed to follow him to the kitchen. Or perhaps she’s just hungry. 

It’s stupid, he knows. Will - no matter how intriguing, and special, and absolutely wonderful he is - is just someone who happens to own a shop Tom goes to sometimes. Sure, they’ve talked, joked and laughed, but they’re not friends. Acquaintances would be pushing it. So why is it that he feels this way? Like he’s just lost his best friend?

By day three, Tom fears the worst. The empty windows, the suspiciously bare shelves, the lack of life. It’s obvious, sudden and he feels kind of silly, really. Perhaps he’s a bit more smitten than he thought, and look where that has led him. 

"Alright. What’s wrong?" 

Tom looks up from the record sleeve in his hands to see Joe all but bursting into his room. He shuts the door behind him and goes to lower the volume of the record player, gesturing for the younger to make room with his free hand. "Nothing’s wrong," Tom says, sitting up in his bed and placing the record sleeve back on his nightstand. Joe looks anything but convinced as he takes a seat beside him. 

"Nothing’s wrong? All you’ve been doing these past few days is mope." Tom makes no move to deny that, to tell him he has in fact not been moping or sulking or anything of the like, because perhaps he has. Instead he just leans back against the wall and sighs. 

Joe is silent for a moment, shifting in his seat as his gaze flits to the bulky record player on his dresser, the record sleeve on his nightstand and then back to him. Even with nearly closed eyes he can see him putting two and two together like the psychologist he isn’t, lips ever so slightly pursed and eyes soft and gentle. 

"So, who’s Will?" he asks and the question is not the one he had expected. 

Either way, Tom tells him.

He tells him all about the small shop on the corner he every so often will visit after work. He tells him about the big, ancient bell above the door that he’s worried might fall on someone’s head one day and cause a concussion, the comfortable, forest green sofa that is perfect to sit and read in, as well as the shelves full of records left to collect dust. 

Tom tells him about Will. 

Will owns an antique shop, wears soft knitted sweaters of all colours and drinks his tea with milk. When no one is around he pulls out records from the shelves, sits on the floor and listens to them, because it’s such a shame leaving them to collect dust. They should be listened to and appreciated, and Joe eyes the sleeve on his nightstand. Whenever he speaks of anything of interest - even something simple like a dull pink, flower printed armchair - he gets this look in his eyes, this look of pure joy. Tom enjoys his presence, feels comforted and welcomed, enjoys his rambling, enjoys his kind smiles and soft eyes. 

"It almost feels like I know him," he says. "Like we’re friends." 

Lastly, he tells him about the dark and abandoned shop he’s been walking past the last three days. The emptiness and lack of life, as well as the suddenness of it all. Joe seemingly notices the change in the mood and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. He’s silent for a few seconds, and Tom can tell he’s looking for something appropriate to say. 

"Do you wanna go make hot chocolate?"

•••

Tom avoids the small shop on the corner for a while after that.

He starts walking right past it, steps never slowing and eyes on the pavement or somewhere on the other side of the road. He starts crossing the road early and walks on the opposite side of the street, finding it easier with the shop now barely visible in the corner of his eyes. He starts taking an early left turn, skips walking past the shop altogether and walks past buildings he rarely ever sees otherwise. 

On his way home from work today, he finds himself walking his regular route. Old habit, he supposes, mixed with the aftermath of nearly nine hours of work. As it at this point is too late to cross the street, and borderline dangerous, he keeps his head down, shoves his hands into his pockets and walks.

"Tom."

Tom halts, nearly tilting forward and breaking his nose on the pavement as he does. He stands there for a moment, swaying a little and mind racing. That voice, accompanied by the sound of that bell. Not even giving himself a chance to hold himself back, think this through and act accordingly, he spins around on his heels and practically throws himself into Will’s arms. 

They stagger for a moment, Will clearly not expecting the sudden - violent - burst of affection, but the hand pressed against the glass stills them.

Not quite in the right state of mind just yet, he squeezes him tight - maybe a bit too tight - and buries his face in his shoulder. His knitted sweater is soft against his cheek, softer than he could have ever imagined, and he smells like books, vanilla soap and tea with milk. There’s a hand on his back, warming his skin even through his lined denim jacket and Will’s soft laughter is right in his ear, and he allows himself to enjoy it for just another moment. 

The hand on his back is reluctant to let go, or at least he likes to think it is, when he pulls away, cheeks embarrassingly flushed and breath caught in his throat. Clearing his throat, he shoves his hands into his pockets, preventing any other rash decisions he might make. It takes him a second before he dares meet Will’s eyes.

Any worry he might have had about having overstepped and crossed a line is washed away, because unless he’s mistaken, Will looks genuinely happy to see him as well. His lips are pulled into a smile, a smile that spreads across his entire face and leaves Tom’s heart fluttering. It reaches his eyes and makes them sparkle. 

"Do you want to come inside?" Will asks him, and he doesn’t have to ask twice. Tom follows him into the shop without a second thought, steps light and carefree and mood already improved. 

The bell above the door rings as loud as ever and Tom couldn’t be happier to hear that obnoxious, deafening noise. Inside all the lights are on and warm air greets him as he steps into the shop. Still, the shelves look a bit bare, the windows are empty and the sign still says "closed". The smile on his face falters and he pauses by the door. A big, brown box sits on the counter. 

"I have tea, if you want some," Will says and continues walking further into the shop, failing to notice Tom stopping. "Or water, if you want that instead." He only stops and turns to him once he’s by the door leading to the back. "And-." 

"Are you alright?"

"When are you leaving?" 

Will’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Leaving?" he says, like he doesn’t see the empty shelves, or the sign in the window, or the moving box on the counter. Like he hasn’t noticed the fact that he has been gone for several days, leaving the shop dark and abandoned. "I only just came back. Tom, what’s wrong?"

It’s now Tom’s turn to be confused. Came back? From where? "What do you mean?" he asks, watching Will approach him, steps slow and careful, like he’ll scare Tom away if he moves too quick. "Where have you been?"

Will stops right in front of him, hand toying with the watch on his wrist. "France."

France? Tom turns to look at the empty windows, the bare shelves and the box on the counter, and Will does the same. Something seems to click in Will’s brain and an "oh" forms on his lips. The realisation hits Tom as well just then. 

"I put some of the antiques away before I left," he explains, and it all makes so much more sense. A wave of relief hits him and at once does he feel much better, a weight lifting off his chest. "Like the ones by the windows for example, since they’re so visible and might be tempting to steal." He turns to walk back to the counter, and Tom follows. "And just some of the more valuable ones." 

Tom peeks into the box. It’s nearly full and he spots a few familiar looking things in there, a lamp he‘s sure he has seen in the window at some point being one of them. "Oh," is all he says, and he feels a bit embarrassed really, having jumped to conclusions like that. The guy is gone for a few days and Tom acts like he has gone to war. 

Joe will have a field day when he hears this. 

"Anyway," Will says and walks around the counter, stopping in the doorway, "did you want anything to drink?" Tom thinks of dinner that is probably waiting for him at home on the kitchen counter, of Myrtle watching the door from her bed and of Joe and his mother. He nods, telling himself he won’t stay for too long. Just a little while. "Water’s fine."

Will disappears into the back for a while, and Tom takes a seat in the soft, forest green sofa to wait for him. He toys with a button on his jacket until it comes loose between his fingers and falls into his lap. Slipping it into his pocket, he then pushes the jacket off his shoulders and drops it on the floor by his feet. It’s too warm and his hands are starting to get clammy. 

When Will returns, the sleeves of his knitted sweater - dark orange in colour - are pushed up to his elbows and he’s carrying a glass in one hand and a cup in the other. He smiles at Tom as he hands him his glass, and the thought of thanking him nearly slips his mind. The cold glass of water feels nice in his warm hands. 

"What have you been up to, then?" Will asks as he takes a seat beside him, cup of tea nestled in his hands. He blows on it before taking a sip. 

"Nothing much." Tom shrugs his shoulders. "Just working, really. Trying to save up some money." Trying is an overstatement at this rate, he thinks to himself, mind immediately going to the record player on his dresser and the record on his nightstand. "And you know, going out, doing things," he adds, just to assure him he’s got at least a little bit of a life. Taking Myrtle out for a bathroom trip at two in the morning counts as going out, right? 

"Where do you work?" Tom doesn’t think anyone has asked him that with such interest in, well ever. It’s like he’s asking because he wants to know, rather than because he has to. 

"At this coffee shop a good ten minute walk from here." Eight and a half actually - six if he walks fast enough - but he figures that is a little too specific. Perhaps he’s checked, perhaps not. "Lockhouse. It’s right by the river." 

Will nods and takes a sip of his tea before answering. "Don’t think I’ve been there before." The words are on the tip of his tongue; You should stop by one day. He stops himself - Will can stop by on his own accord - and Will continues. "Do you enjoy working there?"

"It’s alright." He pauses to finish his water. "Mostly just making coffee and heating up pastries, really. Nothing like old lamps and dusty records." A small wave of regret washes over him. It had sounded much more like a joke in his head, rather than an insult to Will’s living and deepest passion. 

The hand awkwardly gesturing at the nearby shelf - containing neither lamps nor records - does not help and he forces it back in his lap. "So, what did you do in France?"

"Nothing that interesting." Tom can tell he doesn’t mean that. He turns ever so slightly towards him after placing his glass down, back straight and hands folded in his lap, signalling for him to continue. "I mainly went for an auction and I couldn’t really leave the shop for too long, so I didn’t have much time to do much else. Visited a few museums when I got the time and walked around for a bit." 

"Sounds nice," Tom says, and he means that. 

How he would love to just walk down the streets of France with Will, the sun warm on their skin and Will’s voice in his ear as he goes on and on about everything he knows about everything they see. It wouldn’t matter that Tom doesn’t speak a word French, because Will does. French is a beautiful language in and of itself, but even more so when Will is the one speaking. 

Will goes on without Tom needing to assure him that he is in fact neither boring him nor wasting his time. He is perfectly capable of wasting it on his own. Time spent with Will is time well spent. 

Elbow propped up on the back of the sofa and cheek resting in his hand, he listens as Will speaks, not even once stopping to apologise for getting carried away. 

He listens as Will tells him about everything he saw on the way, because he drove. Will drove all the way there in his ten year old car to see the fields, and the trees, and the buildings, and if he were to travel overseas, Tom is fairly sure he’d get a boat and sail across. He listens as Will tells him about the museums, about the helmets, and the guns, and the stories. Will’s eyebrows furrow as he frowns, his eyes wrinkle when he smiles or laughs and his hands move around with enthusiasm as he speaks. Tom takes in every move of a muscle. He listens as Will tells him about the auction. 

Safely fastened, Will had brought back a clock, jewellery, books and a tea set. It all sits in a box behind the counter and Will shows him everything. He lets him touch, hold and look at all of it as he talks, points and explains. Tom feels honoured, and very special. It’s not everyday he gets to hold a century and a half old French clock. 

One glance at his wristwatch and it all stops. Time is once again proven to exist, to Tom’s utmost disappointment.

"I’m so sorry." Will’s cheeks visibly flush as he speaks. "I’ve been keeping you here for so long. You should be getting home." 

Tom lets him take what’s in his hands and place it back in the box, which he then carries back to the counter. While Will puts away the empty glass and cup, he pulls on his jacket. Once Will returns from the back of the shop, he follows Tom to the door. He insists on driving him home, telling him it’s the least he could do after wasting so many hours of his time once again, and Tom declines. Time spent with Will is still time well spent. 

"Tom."

He pauses in the doorway and turns, bell ringing loudly above them and door not yet closing and separating them once again. 

"I missed you."


	5. Chapter 5

Tom brings Will tea. 

He makes it before he leaves, closing the shop for the day. Black with a splash of milk, as well as the tiniest amount of sugar, just in case he’s messed up with the tea leaves again. Standing in the door of the shop, the bright orange paper cup in his hand and jacket thrown over his arm, he debates on whether or not to write something on it. A simple "Will" will do. They always do that, write customers’ names on their drinks. That’s normal. Completely normal.

Then again, Will isn’t a customer, is he? 

On the other hand, if he does write it, he’ll know Tom made it especially for him. Because it will have his name on it in Tom’s messy handwriting. So with the utmost precision and care, he writes down each letter on the cup, careful not to tip it and spill his creation all over the counter. The smiley face he adds in the end ends up a bit wonky, a result of the much too quick motion of his hand. It doesn’t look quite right, but it’s there now. 

He carries it like it’s the most important thing in the world, grip gentle yet secure, as if it’s an important message he needs to deliver. It’s not, though. It’s a cup of tea no one asked him to make, but which he did anyway. 

Coming to a full stop by the door of the small shop on the corner, he peeks inside. 

Past the "open" sign in the window and the items on display, he spots no one among the shelves - now looking a lot less empty - nor behind the counter, but still proceeds to pull the door open and slip inside. The bell rings and his grip on the cup tightens as he promptly steps away from the door. One day, he thinks, one day that thing will surely fall on his head. 

With Will’s name lingering on his lips he walks through the shop. He spots the century and a half old clock perched on the dresser by the wall, as well as the floral tea set displayed on the dining table. The cup of tea is starting to feel a bit colder against his numb skin, and he hopes Will is actually around here somewhere, because he doesn’t want to give him lukewarm tea. 

The spot on the floor beside the record player is empty, and he doubts himself for a moment. Had the sign really said "open"? Had he just wandered right into a closed shop? Still, the lights are on and the door had been unlocked. Unless Tom had picked the lock while he wasn’t paying attention and broken in, in some desperate, lovesick haze, he’s fairly sure it’s open. Tom doesn’t know how to pick a lock anyway. 

"Will?" 

There’s a sound from further behind him, towards the front of the shop. It’s sudden and loud, and Tom nearly drops the cup of tea. It had sounded like something or another hitting a hard surface, with such force even Tom heard it from all the way back here. 

It’s followed by a pained groan, and between the shelves Tom sees Will appear from behind the counter. A hand is buried in his soft looking hair, gently rubbing a spot on the back of his head, and eyebrows are furrowed in pain. The knitted sweater he wears is dark orange in colour, just like yesterday. As Tom moves closer, retracing his steps, Will’s eyes meet his own. The lines on his forehead disappear as his face relaxes completely, the hand in his hair dropping to the counter. He smiles as if he didn’t just smack his head on that counter. 

"Are you alright?" Tom asks, and a few long seconds pass before Will answers. He seems a bit out of it, what with the tired look in his eyes and the lack of response. Tom’s worried he might have actually hurt his head, that he has just given Will a concussion.

"I’m fine." Will’s smile is reassuring and sweet. It makes Tom feel a certain way. "I just didn’t hear you coming in. Surprised me, is all."

Will’s gaze falls on the cup in his hand, letters peeking out between Tom’s fingers. He sets the almost - but not quite - lukewarm tea down and slides it across the counter, right into Will’s hand. "I made you tea," he says. "You should drink it before it gets cold." Their fingers touch for a moment before they both pull away. Tom blames his numb, tingly skin on the barely there heat from the tea. 

"Thank you," Will says and flashes him a sweet smile, one which never fails to make Tom feel a certain way. Playing with the button in his pocket, he watches Will bring the cup of tea up to his lips. Maybe he’d put too much sugar in it. Will doesn’t drink his tea with sugar. Just with milk. But had he put in enough milk, or maybe even too little? 

"Do you like it?" he asks, watching how Will studies the writing on the cup. Way to put him on the spot, Tom. Now he has to say yes, doesn’t he? Might as well answer the question as well, while he’s at it. 

"I like it." Tom can tell he means it, by the smile spreading across his face and reaching his eyes and the second sip he takes before continuing. "Thank you, Tom. I needed that," he says, and Tom can’t remember the last time his name sounded that nice uttered by anyone. He wants to hear it again. 

He watches Will drink his tea for a bit longer than can be socially acceptable, toying with the button in his pocket and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

"So, what were you doing behind the counter?" 

Colour seems to pour into Will’s cheeks the moment he utters the words and he turns an unnatural shade of red. If Tom didn’t know any better, he’d think it was the tea, but that must be lukewarm by now. He regrets asking, feeling like finding that French clock and turning it back a few minutes. It’s Tom’s turn to flush, cheeks heating up and palms getting clammy, and he’s already got an escape plan ready. Myrtle needs a bath, Joe is dying and his mother wants him to buy milk. 

"Sleeping." 

His reply comes with an awkward cough and Will’s face seems to only darken further, colour spreading to the tip of his ears and down his neck. Tom doesn’t quite realise what he says right away, too lost in thoughts about the way Will’s jaw muscles clench or how his hands grip the counter. When he does, however, he can’t help - really can’t help - the hint of a laugh that escapes his lips before he can stop himself. He covers it up with a cough of his own. 

The image, the mere thought actually, of Will curled up on the floor behind the counter just does something to him. It’s the most adorable, soft, pure thing he’s heard in his life. It fuels his lovesick imagination. It opens new doors in the house that is his mind during his daily session consisting of lying on his bed and listening to Jethro Tull until Joe gets sick of him. 

Perhaps he knows all the songs on the Aqualung record by heart, perhaps not. Joe most definitely does at this point. 

"Didn’t sleep much last night," Will says, pushing the now empty paper cup to the side and dusting off the already clean counter with his hand. Tom feels even worse for laughing, even if he didn’t mean it in a mean way. 

A thought pops up in his head, a hypothesis even, if you will. He eyes the dark orange knitted sweater, sleeves pushed up and looking very much like the one he’d worn yesterday, last time they met. His hair is dishevelled, like Will has done nothing but run his fingers through it and it’s much unlike the usual neat and tidy look it has. 

"Did you stay the night here?"

"I might have, yes."

Tom resists the urge to lean over the counter to fix the stray hairs, or tell him to go home, eat properly and sleep at night. Will is a grown man who can do whatever he wants, and Tom is not his mother. 

"Awake?"

Will nods, making his way around the counter. For a moment Tom thinks he’s going to show him out the door, tell him he’s crossed a line and asked too many questions. He doesn’t. Instead he walks right past Tom - who obviously follows right behind - and only stopping as he reaches the glass cabinets, gaze flitting between the content. His own follows, falling on the medals, the pictures, the jewellery and the dog tags. 

Tom has imagined him doing this a lot. Just wandering around the shop, looking at everything and presumably running over every detail of the stories behind each and every item. 

Something seems to be missing. It doesn’t take too long to figure out what.

"Did you sell the rings?" he asks. 

"No."

"Where are they then?" He squints and leans in to take a closer look. Is he being stupid? Are they right in front of him or something? 

He’s reminded of early mornings spent by the fridge, trying to find the butter standing right before his eyes. Whenever he looks too hard, it just seems to disappear completely. Maybe he does need glasses, like Joe insists every time he passes by the staring contest between him and the content of their fridge. Some nice, smart looking ones. Might add a few years to his face.

"I decided to keep them," Will says and shrugs. "Didn’t want to sell them." 

"Oh." 

Will looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Instead, he gestures at the forest green sofa, presumably offering him to sit. Tom doesn’t hesitate, ridding himself of his jacket before sinking into the soft cushion. Will lingers by the glass cabinets for a few seconds before walking back around the counter and disappearing into the back. 

Tom wonders what might be back there, never having gotten as much as a peep through the door.

By the time Will returns, Tom has had time to reply to his mother’s slightly concerned - though more annoyed - messages, as well as imagine every small detail of the back of the shop. The small kitchen area where he makes his tea, the drawers of perfectly organised documents and the boxes of items yet to be put out and priced. 

"I bought you something." 

Tom looks up to see Will standing by the counter, something or another in his hand. If his cheeks just so happen to flush, he hopes Will doesn’t notice. 

"Yeah?" The way his voice cracks is embarrassing and he quickly clears his throat. "In France?"

"I saw it in this small shop by the river, and thought you might like it." 

Will bought him something. If he wasn’t blushing before, he certainly was now. Because sweet, nice - very handsome - Will bought him something with his own money in France. Had Will been thinking about him, then, like he had? Had he lied on the bed in his hotel room, stared up at the ceiling and wondered when - or if in Tom’s case - he might see him again? 

"What is it?" 

Almost hesitantly does Will walk closer. He sits down right beside him, shoulder brushing against his. His hand opens and resting in his palm, is a necklace. It’s a pretty necklace - very pretty in fact - with a thin, golden chain and see through pendant with something or another in it. 

"They’re cherry blossoms," Will explains, and Tom leans in to look. Sure enough, petals of a cherry blossom sit within the glass. They’re real. "From the fields of France." 

Tom’s eyes are embarrassingly wet. If he so happens to think this through a bit too much, he might actually shed a tear. Will saw something as pretty and special as this, in between his interesting trips to museums and auctions, and he thought of Tom. Tom with the wet, dirty shoes and the occasional awkward responses. Tom who occasionally stops by and buys things he doesn’t need. Tom whom he barely even knows, but still does, in an odd, indescribable way. 

"Thank you," he says, and he means that, and picks it up with gentle movements. "I love it." He runs his fingers over the pendant, eyeing the petals inside and wondering how much this must have costed. Not too much, he hopes. 

"Did you get anything else you didn’t tell me about?" he jokingly asks, looking up from his gift. He only tears his gaze away from Will to gently place the necklace on top of his jacket beside him on the sofa. Once he’s sure it rests there safely, he turns back to Will. "Any more surprises?" He hopes to God that sounds like a joke, like it’s meant to be. It does, by the looks of it. 

Will chuckles, gaze leaving Tom. He recognises that look that forms on his face. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t, rather holding back. If he’s worried about boring him, about wasting his time or about holding him here against his will, he’s very much wrong. Tom wants to hear about old clocks and floral tea sets. Tom wants to hear about all the stories and facts he’s read about and heard of. Tom wants to hear about the war; the conditions, the uniforms and the weapons. Hell, he’ll take the stories about the rats too, just to hear Will talk even more. 

"I enjoy being here," Tom says. "I like listening to you talk. You’re not forcing me to sit here, if that’s what you think." 

Will looks at him again, almost studying him, as if to see if he really means that. Seemingly finding his answer, he flashes him a smile. It makes something in Tom’s chest squeeze tight, making him forget to breathe for a moment. 

"I enjoy having you here." Tom nearly chokes on the air he finally breathes in. It takes him a second to catch his breath. 

"So, did you get anything else?" he asks, because he wants to know. He wants to know about every little detail of Will’s trip. Every flower he saw, every awkward moment he experienced, every song he listened to on the drive there. All of it. 

"Just some items for myself." Tom send him a look, silently telling him to go on. "Someone I know found them and thought I might want them, so I picked them up while I was there." 

"What was it?"

"A medal, and some old photographs." 

Tom turns ever so slightly towards Will, scooting back a little to avoid bumping his knee into him. He rests his elbow on the back of the sofa. "Did they belong to your family or something?" he asks. The idea of Will having family in France is not that impossible, considering he speaks French. Then again, Tom speaks no French, so Will could be horrible at it for all he knows. 

Will nods.

"Can I see?"

"I don’t have them here." 

Of course he doesn’t, Tom thinks, he just said he bought them for himself. They’re probably on display in his home. Maybe on a shelf in his living room, above his record player. He might sit on his sofa and look at them as he listens to his records. Or, maybe they’re in the safety of his bedroom, put away in one of the drawers of his dresser. Maybe he looks at them as he sits on his bed, running his fingers over the photographs and reciting stories from the people’s lives, and feeling the weight of the medal in his hand, thinking of everything they went through. 

"Oh, alright. You’ll have to show them to me sometime." And he just invited himself home to Will. Now he can’t say no, can he? He can only give him an awkward "perhaps" and then never mention it again. 

"I’ll bring them sometime," Will just says and watches him reaching back to toy with the necklace, making sure it’s still there. Tom feels his eyes on him, or so he believes at least, tracing his seemingly permanent flushed skin. When he turns back to Will again, his eyes are on the necklace resting on Tom’s jacket. 

"I can drive you home, if you’d like. I’ve kept you long enough." 

Tom holds back his reassurances - still firmly believing time spent with Will, is time well spent - and accepts.

•••

The drive is silent, though it’s a comfortable silence that fills the car, rather than an awkward one. Will keeps his eyes on the road, while Tom’s wander around.

He looks out the window at the buildings they pass by, at the people walking and an occasional cute dog. He looks around the clean, spotless car. To be ten years old, it looks new and cared for. The floor is clean, the windows are spotless and there’s a faint smell of citrus. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Will hasn’t used the car since the last time he drove him home.

He looks at Will; his slightly messy hair, his exposed forearms and his hands gripping the steering wheel. Tom tilts his head back to rest it against the seat and admires Will’s profile, memorising every angle, every dip and every bump. 

It’s only when the car stops he looks away, unbuckling his seatbelt. Out the window he sees his house. He spots what could only be Myrtle in one of the windows and smiles, turning back towards Will. 

"Thank you for the ride." 

Will smiles at him, and surprises him by reaching a hand out. Tom doesn’t quite know what’s happening, and stays still, breath caught in his throat. Will’s fingers barely touch his cheekbone before he pulls away again, leaving Tom’s skin tingly and numb. Heat spreads across his face and he needs to get out of this car before he turns red. 

"Sorry," Will says, hand going back to gripping the steering wheel. "I thought you had something on your face," he explains. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Tom says and stumbles out of the car, foot catching in the door. He nearly face plants in the gravel, but quickly catches his composure to wave at Will. 

Joe, the nosy little bastard, waits right by the door. "Where have you been?" he asks, but he already knows the answer to that. Tom can tell that by the small, knowing grin on his face. Tom only walks right past him.


	6. Chapter 6

"I’ve found a flat."

Tom looks up from his third piece of bread with plum jam to look at his brother. Joe sits across from him, empty plate pushed to the side and arms folded on the table. His expression is hard to read, different emotions mixing into one another and creating the neutral look he gives him. Tom pops the last piece of his breakfast into his mouth. 

"Yeah?" Crumbs fly out of his mouth and Joe scrunches his nose in distaste. Tom sets his plate aside and wipes the table with his sleeve. 

"Yeah. Just need to wait and see if I get it." He goes to grab both his own plate as well as Tom’s, getting up to put them in the sink. Tom stays seated, taking his sweet time finishing his glass of water. 

His free hand absentmindedly toys with the chain around his neck, pendant hidden underneath his jumper. He would be lying if he said he hasn’t been wearing it since he got it, only ever taking it off when showering. 

Every so often does he find himself toying with the necklace around his neck, running his fingers over the cherry blossoms inside the glass - or maybe it’s plastic - and adjusting the chain. Lying on his bed and listening to his only record, he holds the pendant between two gentle fingers and stares up at it. It’s pretty and special, and he smiles at the thought of Will seeing it and thinking of him. 

"When will you know if you got it?" he asks, hand letting go of the chain to pat his chest, making sure the pendant is still there. 

"Oh, so that’s how it is." Joe pokes him in the ribs as he walks by, picking up Tom’s glass as he does. "Can’t wait to get rid of me and get some more storage space for your unnecessary purchases?" 

"I was thinking about getting a drum set actually. Might start a band." 

Joe just laughs.

•••

When Tom stops by the shop later that day after work, Will is busy with a customer.

This time he comes empty handed, deciding that bringing Will tea every time he shows up might make the gesture a bit less special, and more like a chore rather than a kind thing he went out of his way to do. If Will happens to want some more tea - or perhaps something else - he’s very welcome to stop by the coffee shop of his own accord. Maybe he’s started watching the door to the shop a bit more intently, hoping that if he stares long and hard enough, Will shows up, maybe he hasn’t. 

Tom spots him further towards the back of the shop, and he pauses to gawk at him for an embarrassingly long time. 

His standard - presumably very soft - knitted sweater is a light cream coloured one and it hugs his frame nicely. His hair is neatly styled, and Tom does definitely not stand there and debate on whether his hair is a light brown colour, or a dark blond colour. Hypothetically speaking, he figures it’s a mixture of both, how much of each colour depending on the lighting. His weight seems to almost bounce from one foot to the other as he speaks to the young man beside him - who Tom recognises as the man with the German accent in the music shop - enthusiasm evident in his voice. 

Tom can’t hear what he’s saying, but he can only guess it’s about something at least a century old, and oh how he wishes he was a hundred years old right now. 

Eventually he snaps out of his - borderline creepy at this point - staring, deciding it’s a good idea to occupy himself with something else and act at least a little bit normal. So, to keep himself busy, he browses the content of the nearby shelves; some trinkets he has no idea what are for, a couple of pretty vases and an occasional fancy looking pocket watch. 

Reaching the very familiar forest green sofa, he grabs the first book he sees and takes a seat, because he’s fairly sure he’s looked at every single item in this part of the shop at least twice. He recognises it as he takes a proper look at it. William Blake. 

Tom wonders if Will’s name is short for "William", or if it’s just "Will". 

Will passes him at some point. Tom has his nose buried in the poetry book in his lap, eyes fixated on the poem he’s been staring at for the past five minutes, when he hears the sound of floorboards creaking under nice, sophisticated shoes. "Hello, Tom," Will says and Tom almost regrets looking up, because the way in which Will smiles at him takes his breath away. He smiles at him like the only thing he’s been waiting for today is Tom stopping by. Tom might be wrong, but he can certainly dream. 

"Hi, Will." His own voice is nearly gone, uttered words only some breathless, embarrassing noises, and he clears his throat and coughs. Will then gets back to his customer all the while Tom stares down at the book in his hands, wondering if he’ll ever not get caught off guard like that by Will merely looking at him. 

Will returns a short time later, lingering a few metres away from the sofa for a couple of seconds before finally taking a seat beside him. Their shoulders brush as Tom moves to close the book and put it down. 

"Do you like poetry?" Will asks, eyeing the book on the coffee table, and he doesn’t quite know what to say. Does he lie and tell him he loves it and reads it all the time, to then proceed to fall head first into an impromptu poetry analysis he’s sure to muck up? Does he tell the truth and admit to the fact that he hasn’t read one since they forced them onto him at school? 

"It’s alright," is what he does say, and it’s not really the best answer he could have given, but not necessarily the worst either. "What about you?" he quickly adds after a second of silence. 

"Yeah," Will says and nods, reaching over to pick up the book in one smooth movement. "There’s just something relaxing about it, you know?" Tom mindlessly nods, ignoring the flashbacks from school of literary devices, themes and motifs. Relaxing is not the word he’d use, but he’s sure he’d love a good poem under different circumstances. 

Will flips through the pages, stopping at the one Tom had been staring holes into a few moments ago. "I like this one." His voice is hushed and nothing but a mumble, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and he shuts the book. Tom barely catches the letters of the title Will’s thumb traces. 

The Lily.

"Do you want anything to drink?" Will asks as he places the book back down, eyes then finding his own. Tom struggles not to get lost in them. "Some tea would be nice."

He stops and turns to face Tom in the door to the back, body resting against the doorframe. Tom waits for him to speak, but he doesn’t, seemingly hesitating to say whatever it is he wants to say. Not quite sure what to say himself, Tom breaks eye contact to slip off his jacket and get more comfortable. He drops the jacket on the floor and leans back in his seat, hand unconsciously reaching for the chain around his neck. When he looks back over at the door, Will isn’t there anymore. 

While he’s gone, Tom takes the time to message his mother and tell her he might be home late, as well as flip through the book on the table and skim through the poem a few times - just in case. The moment he puts the book down, Will returns. In each hand he has a cup, one which he hands to Tom with a smile that makes his breath hitch. 

"I brought them," Will says as he brings his cup up to his lips, taking a sip. Tom wonders what he means exactly, and the confusion must be evident on his face because Will continues. "The medal and the photographs," he explains and an "oh" forms on Tom’s lips. He’d almost forgotten about those. "I have them here, if you want to look at them." 

Tom eagerly nods, nearly knocking his teeth into his cup as he does, and flashes him a smile. He wants to show that he’s interested, that he wants Will to sit down with him and talk about old things and that he actually enjoys and appreciates it, because he is indeed very interested. 

Will places his own cup down and stands, Tom’s gaze following him as he walks to the counter. He disappears out of sight for a few seconds and Tom can hear him rummaging around back there. In the mean time, Tom puts down his cup of tea, fixes his hair - or at least he hopes that’s what he does - and pulls out the necklace from under his jumper. 

When Will returns, gaze landing on the necklace around Tom’s neck, he swears he sees a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It looks nice on you," he says and the way in which Tom’s face flushes is embarrassing. A flustered, breathless "thanks" is all he manages to splutter in response. Will doesn’t seem to notice - thank Christ for that - eyes now on the items in his hands. 

Without a word, Will places something in a small plastic bag on the table in front of them and Tom has to lean over to see what it is. He reaches out to touch it and pick it up, though not before glancing at Will and receiving a silent permission to do so. 

It’s a medal. 

It’s some metal and a ribbon, and in his eyes it’s like any of the other ones behind the glass by the counter. Then again, Tom is no expert on medals like Will surely is. He gives Will a small smile. "It’s nice." If Will wasn’t looking at him, he’d be facepalming, because really? It’s nice? Couldn’t he have said something at least a tiny bit more intellectual than that? 

"Whose was it?" he asks, and Will’s smile does this weird twitchy thing. Tom worries he might have said something wrong, struck a nerve and fucked something up. 

"A relative." Tom had already figured as much, but alright. He only nods and places the medal back on the table, making sure to be very gentle. 

Beside him, Will is seemingly looking through the photographs, shuffling them like a deck of cards. He pauses to pull one out, but doesn’t give it to Tom, instead placing it beside him, out of Tom’s sight. Tom doesn’t question his action, at least not verbally. Will can show him whatever he wants. They’re not Tom’s photographs after all. 

Will hands him the remaining bunch, scooting ever so slightly closer to him. "Did you get all of these in France?" Tom asks, and Will shakes his head. "Only a couple of them." 

They must sit there for hours, daylight slowly but surely disappearing outside as Will shows him each and every photograph one by one. He takes his time, telling Tom everything he knows. Tom listens intently, savouring every word and expression, as well as the feeling of Will’s shoulder brushing against his own. 

Will tells him about the houses on display in the photographs; where they once stood, when they were built and who lived there. He creates vivid images in Tom’s head of children running around in the garden, of chatter and laughter pouring out the cracked open windows and of sunlight shining through them and heating up the rooms. Will tells him about the people; of the men in uniforms, of the little girls and the woman. Tom almost wonders if Will is in fact an actual time traveler, because how can he know so much from just a few still images, some mere fragments of what once was, otherwise? Will tells him about the war as Tom flips through some more pictures of uniform clad men. 

"Is this you?"

Tom stops to take a closer look at one of them which catches his eye. The man in the photograph looks an awful lot like Will, doesn’t he? The same historical facial features make up the man’s face, everything from the shape of his lips to his jawline. The hair is styled in the same neat, perfect way. The only thing differentiating them is the look in their eyes. Will looks much more alive, lacking the thousand yard stare the man in the photograph has. 

"No," Will says, tone calm and nonchalant, and Tom feels stupid for asking. Obviously it’s a relative. Relatives look alike sometimes. He should know, shouldn’t he? He’s been mistaken for his brother once or twice in his life. 

"Oh, right. I just thought he looks a bit like you." Will leans in to look and Tom can smell the familiar scent of tea and books. "So he does." He distances himself from Tom again and moves on to the next photograph.

•••

Will drives him home. He insists, and Tom can’t refuse, not with Will’s warm hand on his arm and eyes staring into his own.

An unknown song plays on the radio on low volume and if Tom’s silent enough, he can hear Will’s quiet humming. If his mind is playing tricks on him, or if he’s actually humming the song on the radio, Tom doesn’t know. Either way, he sits quietly in his seat, eyes on the dark road in front of him and breathing as silent and calm as possible, and listens. 

Will stops the car outside his house and Tom hopes he’ll reach his hand out and touch his face this time too, run his fingers over his cheekbone and make his skin tingle. He doesn’t, to Tom’s utmost disappointment, merely flashing him a small smile and telling him to have a good night. 

Tom manages to get out of the car in one piece this time, and stands there and watches Will’s car for an unnatural amount of time, not moving until Joe calls his name in the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,  
>  The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:  
> While the Lily white shall in love delight,  
> Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright._  
> \- "The Lily", William Blake


	7. Chapter 7

Will stops by the coffee shop one early morning. 

Tom doesn’t notice him right away, gaze stuck on the coffee stain on the counter he’s vigorously scrubbing with a wet cloth. The bell above the door - neither as big as a church bell nor deafeningly loud - rings, and footsteps approach the counter. It’s only as he feels a pair of eyes on him that he looks up, usual greeting lingering on his lips. It cuts short however as he sees who it is.

"Will," is all he says, though it’s more of an exhale really, just a breath slipping out of his lungs and forming a word. 

He clears his throat, dropping the cloth and straightening. The cloth hits the floor with an audible splat and he ignores it for now, pushing it out of the way with his foot. He’s not about to slip on that thing, hit his head and get a concussion in front of Will, at least not today. 

"Hi."

"Hello," Will says and smiles, leaving Tom embarrassingly dumbfounded. Will seems to have this natural talent at making Tom lose his ability to speak, or think, or be normal. He nearly asks why he’s here exactly, but stops himself before he makes that mistake. Tea, obviously, or maybe something else. The thought successfully reminds him of the fact that he should be serving Will right about now, and not gawk at him.

"Did you want anything?" he asks, shuffling to the side in case he’s in the way of the menu behind him. He avoids the breathtaking smile and the bright blue eyes as much as he can, having finally regained his ability to breathe and act like a fairly normal person again. His hands toy with the apron he’s wearing, bunching up the fabric, only to smooth it out again. With his warm, clammy hands he’s practically ironing it. 

"I’ll just have the tea you brought the other day, if that’s alright."

"Of course." Tom conceals his smile until Will has paid and he has turned around to get started on the tea. Will likes the tea he made. "It’ll be done in a moment," he barely manages to add. 

Will sits at a nearby table, the closest one actually, he notes the moment he dares cast a glance at him over his shoulder. His hands are folded on the table, his coat is thrown over the back of the other chair and his gaze moves around the room as if he’s studying it. Unlike all the other times they’ve met - an amount he has officially lost track of - Will isn’t wearing a knitted sweater. Instead, he wears a button up. It’s white with something or another on the collar, every button is buttoned and it fits him like it was made just for him. It’s unfamiliar and unusual he has to admit, but it’s nice. He looks nice. Tom averts his eyes as Will’s gaze eventually lands on him, toying with his obnoxiously orange apron with his free hand. 

He suggests getting new ones nearly every staff meeting they have, preferably a colour that is less likely to give someone a permanent eye injury, but Leslie insists on keeping these ones. Bright, blinding, obnoxious, traffic cone orange ones. Honestly, it’s like looking at the sun. Leslie doesn’t even have to wear an apron, as he just does accounting, or managing, or whatever it is he does back there to keep this place afloat. Tom suspects he does it out of spite, or just because he can, or maybe he just enjoys the colour orange. 

It’s only as he eventually finishes making the tea, adding a - carefully executed - splash of milk and the tiniest amount of sugar, and makes his way over to Will’s table that he dares look at him again. Their eyes meet when he’s halfway there and Will’s smile is sweet and inviting. As he gently places the just as obnoxious paper cup down in front of him, he catches a glimpse of the embroidery on Will’s shirt collar. 

Cherries.

Will thanks him with an even sweeter, more inviting smile and he eyes the chair on the opposite side of the table as he takes a sip of his tea. When Tom doesn’t take the hint, he reaches over to take his coat. 

"Bye." Tom spins around on his heels and begins walking away. 

"Don’t you want to sit?"

•••

He stays at the coffee shop for nearly two hours, hands clutching the paper cup Tom has refilled at least five times by now. Tom sits with him whenever he isn’t serving a customer, wiping tables or doing dishes.

Will talks about literature, records and antiques. He’s a bit reserved at first, never saying too much at once, and if he does, he’ll just stop mid sentence and apologise for wasting his time and bothering him. He clearly doesn’t know Tom would gladly sit through a five hour monologue about the durability of pocket watches or the changes in literature over the last century. He would and he will, and it pays off. Eventually Will opens up a bit, and Tom is fairly sure it’s all the encouraging nodding and smiling he’s been doing. 

In the evening, Will likes to put on a record, get a cup of tea and read until way past midnight. He mentions names of artists and composers Tom has never heard of in his life, and he notes them down in his mind for later. The tea is either black with milk, green without milk or chamomile. His choice of books depends. Sometimes he enjoys a good, long thriller, and other times a simple, short poetry book. 

Will’s favourite poet is William Blake, and he knows all his favourite poems by heart. He recites some to Tom, and even though he knows he’s never going to remember them all like Will does, he still tries. 

Whenever Will isn’t reading novels or poetry, he reads documents. One of his favourite parts about antiques is reading about them and learning every detail of the story behind them, whether it be a medal from the Great War or a dull pink, flower printed armchair. Tom takes in everything he says like a sponge. 

Tom tells Will about himself when he asks. He tells him about work; of his boss Leslie who insists on keeping the obnoxious aprons, of Kilgour who never seems to show up on time, and of the time he spilled an entire bag of flour all over the floor. Will’s laughter makes his chest tighten and his heart rate pick up. He tells every mildly funny story he can think of on the spot, just to hear him laugh one more time. 

"A drunk German stumbled in here last weekend," he says as he once again drops into his seat, this time after refilling some trays of biscuits. Will raises his eyebrows and just looks at him for a moment, clearly caught off guard, and Tom regrets not being a little smoother. "Knocked over a couple of chairs, threw up in a bin. Made a right mess."

The corners of Will’s lips twitch and Tom swears his heart skips a beat. "What did he want?"

"Brandy apparently."

Will laughs at that and Tom is sure his heart skips several beats, though he keeps his composure. "Was yelling and screaming right in my face about it. Kilgour live translated." Will snorts into his cup of tea. "Leslie made a hell of a fuss. Thought he was gonna kill the poor bastard." 

"Did you call the police?" Will’s voice is unsteady with laughter and he has to set down his cup of tea to wipe his lips with a napkin.

"Yeah, they came and brought him home. Left us to clean up the mess."

Tom tells Will about his family. He tells him about his mother who still to this day wears the brooch he had bought her. Will’s smile is genuine and delighted, as if nothing makes him happier than Tom’s mother liking the brooch he sold him for just five pounds. He tells him about Myrtle with her soft fur, kind nature and habit of not going to the bathroom until three in the morning. Lastly, he tells him about his brother Joe who has studied teaching, loves to ask questions and who is soon moving out. 

"He looks like me. He’s-."

"A bit older?" 

Tom pauses, eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah. Do you know him? Joseph Blake?" 

Will shrugs. "Just guessed."

•••

Eventually Will has to leave, much to Tom’s disappointment.

Tom refills his cup with tea one last time, making sure to add the perfect amount of milk and sugar. He wants Will to come back again, and again, and maybe again. By the time he’s gently pushing the full paper cup across the counter, he has decided to stop by the antique shop on his way home, just to stop by and say hello, or to listen to a five hour monologue about watches and literature.

Kilgour watches them from one of the tables with a confused - he thinks at least - look on his face, and the cloth Tom had discarded a while ago in his hand, as he walks Will to the door. It’s dumb, he knows. Will can find the door, open it and leave on his own, but once he started walking, he couldn’t exactly stop. He committed to the awkward gesture the moment he went around the counter. 

"Are you stopping by the shop later?" Will asks, pausing by the door. 

"Yes," Tom replies, a bit too quick for comfort, but Will doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles sweetly, and Tom is going to need a second to catch his breath after this. 

"I’ll have some tea ready." 

Will then smiles and pulls his hand out of one of the pockets of his nice, double breasted coat to open the door and leave. He doesn’t get to however, as the door opens before he can even touch the handle. Both of them take a step away, Will clearly just as surprised as Tom - but Will was probably not busy staring at his watch and counting the painfully long hours left of Tom’s shift like he was. Five and a half, to be exact. Well, technically five hours and twenty seven minutes. 

Joe.

His brother doesn’t seem to notice Will standing by the door, hand now back in his pocket. Then again, Joe has only ever heard of Will, not seen him. Mainly because Tom isn’t a gossiping schoolgirl, but also because he doesn’t know Will’s last name - never mind if his first name is "William" or just "Will". 

"You going somewhere?" his brother asks, giving him another one of those analysing looks. "Your shift’s not over yet, is it?" He casts a glance over his shoulder, back at the door and pauses as he spots Will, still standing there and looking a bit unsure of whether to leave or not. 

"This is Will," Tom says before Joe can say anything implying he’s heard of him before. "A friend," he adds before he can think it through. Friends isn’t pushing it by now, right? They see each other sometimes. Friends hang out, drink tea and talk about antiques for hours on end, right? He gives Joe a look he hopes sends some sort of message. 

"Joe." Tom watches them shake hands. Will’s gaze flits about before meeting his brother’s, lips forming a polite, yet completely genuine smile that never fails to make Tom feel a certain way. He’s going to have to sit down after all this heart clenching and loss of his breath. Will’s almost a hazard - in a good way. "Tom’s brother." 

"I know," Will says with such confidence that makes Tom question if he does know his brother after all. Joe’s never mentioned any "Will" before. "Tom has told me all about you." Oh, right. 

"Nice things, I’m guessing."

Will only smiles. When he meets Tom’s gaze for a brief moment there’s the subtlest of a glint in his pretty, blue eyes, and Tom knows just what he’s thinking. He might have told Will a few - maybe more - stories relating to Joe’s emo phase, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

"So, you the infamous Will I’ve heard so much about? Or is there another antiquarian Will I don’t know of?" 

Tom’s head all but snaps in the direction of Joe, ready to pry them apart and get Will out of here before his brother can say anything else. He can feel Will’s eyes on him and he does his very best at ignoring the blush creeping up his neck and heating up his skin. Will knows he’s been talking about him, to Joe of all people, and enough for him to be considered "infamous". 

He catches Will looking at him from the corner of his eye, but still doesn’t dare look at him. He’s afraid his face might actually burn off if he does. Instead he keeps his cool - he thinks and hopes at least - and keeps his eyes on Joe, as well as the smug little smile on his face. 

"I guess that’s me," is all Will says, and he doesn’t sound weirded out in the slightest. If anything he almost sounds pleased. Then again, Tom can’t hear much other than the blood pumping into his face.

A brief moment of silence passes, consisting of Joe nodding and Will eyeing his watch. Tom’s ready to finally end the conversation, find somewhere to sit and breathe for a second, and get back to work before Leslie sees him slacking, but Will beats him to it. 

"I should get back to the shop." Tom nods in agreement. "And I should get back to work, before Leslie has my head." 

Will smiles at them both, pulls his hand out of his pocket and reaches for the door, pushing it open. "It was nice meeting you, and I guess I’ll see you later, Tom." With that, he’s out the door. Once he’s out of sight, Joe turns to him, not even bothering concealing the smug expression on his face.

"So, is it a date or?"

Tom chooses to ignore him, wipes his clammy hands on the fabric of his obnoxious apron and walks back to the counter. He passes by Kilgour on the way, who’s still wiping down the same table, and nods in the direction of Joe. 

"He’ll have the usual."


	8. Chapter 8

Tom stops by the small shop on the corner later that day after work, just like he said he would. 

Once he arrives, he pauses by the door and lingers there for a few moments, one hand buried in his pocket while the other clutches a small paper bag. Joe had suggested that he’d bring something to eat with the tea, like a biscuit, which had sounded like a great idea until his brother had gone on to suggest a heart shaped one.

Tom did bring some biscuits - several in fact - though they’re just round, regular ones with bits of chocolate. Because first of all, they don’t sell heart shaped biscuits at the coffee shop, and second of all, Tom is not about to show up at Will’s shop with heart shaped biscuits. Might as well just pick out some Love Hearts and give to him instead, like some primary school student with a crush. 

Peeking through the window, past the "open" sign, the old lamps and his own reflection, he spots Will. 

Will stands hunched over the counter, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows and the first couple of buttons unbuttoned. His full attention is on whatever is laid out in front of him. Tom suspects they’re documents, or something of the like. He can’t wait to ask what they’re about and listen to Will explain, a warm cup of tea and a sweet biscuit in hand. 

Their eyes meet when he eventually builds up the courage to open the door and go inside. He steps away from the door out of habit and he waits until he hears the familiar bell ringing behind him. The small smile already formed on Will’s lips grows as Tom approaches, and he pushes whatever it is he was so engrossed in to the side. 

"Hello, Tom." 

"Hi," he says almost right away, having had the entire walk from the door to the counter to prepare his voice. "What are you reading about today?" he asks after casting a quick glance at the papers. 

Will’s quiet for an odd moment as he gathers up the papers, and a few photographs unless Tom’s mistaken, into a much neater pile. "The rings, among other things. I remembered these were still here, and couldn’t help but read through them a couple of times..." His voice trails off and he gestures at the pile of papers. Tom smiles to himself when Will isn’t looking. "I’m taking them home with me." 

Tom doesn’t question it, not the importance of these rings, why they’re so special to him or the reason he’s not selling them. Will can do whatever he wants with them as far as he’s concerned. They’re his after all. He merely nods and toys with the fold on the paper bag in his hands, unfolding and folding it several times. 

"Oh," he says, perhaps a bit louder than he intended, as he only then remembers what he’d brought with him. Will looks puzzled, eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed and gaze searching. 

"Here." Will’s face relaxes as he places the small paper bag between them on the counter, unfolding and opening it so he can look inside. "I brought biscuits for the tea." The smile that promptly forms on Will’s face, reaching his eyes and lighting them up like candles, is expected, but makes his breath hitch all the same. 

He loves Will’s smile. 

It’s genuine and unfeigned, coming from somewhere deep inside of him, rather than a mere polite gesture. It makes Tom’s heart clench and his breath hitch, never seeming to fail to catch him off guard. It seems to pick out and remove any slight awkward or uncomfortable feel to the air around them and replace it with a nice, familiar and pleasant one. 

He misses it when it’s not there, and he wants to make it reappear. Will deserves to smile and laugh. 

"Tea should be ready in a moment," Will says as he closes the paper bag and pushes it across the counter, not letting go until Tom takes it from him. Like out of a cliché romance film Tom might have watched at some point, their fingers touch and his skin feels slightly tingly. "I’ll go get a plate," he continues and Tom watches him disappear through the door leading into the back of the shop. 

Tom doesn’t move from his spot as he waits for him, setting the bag of biscuits down and resting his elbows on the counter. His eyes flit about while he waits, from the paper bag in front of him, to the medals and jewellery in the glass cabinets and the familiar, though now fewer, brooches. His gaze eventually lands on the small pile of papers, just sitting there within reach. 

He shouldn’t look at them, but he does. Curiosity gets the best of him. 

He only takes a quick peek, flips through the papers, skims through some of the text and wonders what makes any of the items mentioned so special that Will doesn’t want to sell them. Spotting an odd photograph of people Tom doesn’t know here and there attached to documents, he assumes they all must be related to his family somehow. He can understand that, wanting to keep them for sentimental value rather than selling them to complete strangers. 

There’s one photograph that catches his attention. Only a corner sticks out from underneath some more papers. What Tom can only assume is a part of a person is dark, dirty and hard to see, like the photograph has been drenched in mud and left to dry for who knows how many years. Tom feels a faint urge to pull it out and look at it, and absentmindedly, as if on autopilot, does he reach for it. 

"Tea’s ready." 

Tom jerks his hand back and promptly steps away from the now much less neater pile of papers, looking up to see Will standing in the doorway. His sleeves have been pulled back down to cover his forearms, each and every button on his shirt has been buttoned and unless Tom’s imagining things, there’s a faint floral scent. There are two cups of tea and a plate in his hands, and an unreadable expression on his face. 

"Could you go put these down?"

After carefully setting everything down on the counter, Will pushes the cups of tea in his direction. While Tom does just that, wordlessly trudging over to the green sofa and putting the cups down, he glances at Will to see him gather up the pile of papers and place them somewhere under the counter, out of sight. 

"I’m sorry," Tom says the moment Will finally takes a seat beside him on the forest green sofa, placing the plate of biscuits down and reaching for his own cup of tea. Tom holds his with both hands.

The smile that forms on Will’s lips behind the cup as he takes a sip is kind and genuine, reaching his eyes. It’s like he doesn’t mind at all that Tom went through his documents. "It’s fine, really. They’re just boring documents about old things." He pauses to take another sip, and Tom takes the opportunity to take one as well. "I’m glad you’re interested."

"They’re interesting," Tom blurts our not long after he’s swallowed a mouthful of burning hot tea, "the papers, I mean. They’re not boring."

"One would think that."

Tom wonders what he means by just that, but doesn’t question him. Instead, he reaches for a biscuit.

•••

The incident with the papers is soon forgotten, and they talk over tea and biscuits with chocolate bits for hours.

They’re only ever interrupted by the bell above the door, its all too familiar and too loud ringing sounding through the shop like an alarm. While Will is off tending to customers, Tom sips his tea, chews on a biscuit and thinks of something interesting to say when Will returns, something that’ll make him smile again. 

Tom tells him more stories, ones that make Will’s soft laughter fill his ears and echo in his mind like a catchy song. He tells him about the time Joe pushed him out of a cherry tree and broke his arm, about the time he tried to cut his own hair and how it ended up looking like an actual birds nest, and about the time he got drunk for the first time and threw up on his mother’s shoes. 

He learns that Will doesn’t have any siblings, tends to cut his own hair rather than get it done by someone, and that he rarely ever gets drunk. Tom’s left wondering what kind of drunk person Will is. 

Will tells him more about himself, and Tom listens intently. He enjoys listening to him talk about himself, feeling as if he’s getting to know him better and better with each interest, each fact and each expressed thought. Tom is fairly sure they’re friends at this point, and he does not mind that at all. Will is nice, and interesting, and friendly. Maybe one day - unless he’s getting ahead of himself - they might be more. 

Will studied history at university a couple of hours from here, anything relating to the subject having been his passion since he was young. When little he used to sit outside and look at rocks, pretending they were fossils, run around in the small garden and pretend he was a soldier in war, and read books about historical periods until late at night.

Tom ignores the memory that pops up, involving him hurling a rock at his brother and giving him a nasty black eye. 

A while later, after getting out of university and saving up some money, Will opened up this very shop. Tom’s gaze travels around the room, landing on the paintings on the wall, the books on the shelves and the lamps in the windows, and finds himself very glad Will did. 

"What’s so special about the rings?"

The question is sudden, even surprising Tom himself. It most certainly surprises Will who pauses mid sentence to look at him. A short silence follows, one that Tom isn’t quite sure is a comfortable one or not. 

"They belonged to someone I knew."

Will doesn’t say anything else, and they leave it at that. Tom moves on to tell him about the record player that hangs off the edge of his dresser, and Will laughs like nothing has happened.

•••

Will drives him home that afternoon - borderline evening - as well. He insists, like he so often does, and Tom can’t refuse.

A song Tom is sure he’s heard before plays on the radio on low volume, and Will taps the steering wheel with his thumb to the beat. He’s almost certain it’s a Beatles song, but he’s not entirely sure which one. Either way, he pieces together that Will must like them, and the dumb idea of wasting his money on a Beatles record presses it’s way into his mind. 

Tom occupies his mind by staring out the window, toying with the button still in his pocket and trying to remember what his mother had said would be for dinner today. Once in a while he throws a quick glance in Will’s direction, at the cherries on his shirt collar, the slightly concentrated expression on his face and the watch ticking away on his wrist. 

He parks where he always does, front of the car facing the road so he won’t have to reverse out of the driveway, and angled in a way that lets Tom walk right to the door in a few strides. Tom quickly unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to open the door. 

"Tom."

A bit too quick for his neck’s own good does he turn to see Will holding up a button. It takes him a moment, but he recognises it as the one belonging to his jacket. Before he gets to take it, Will reaches over to slip it into the left chest pocket, hand lingering above his racing heart before pulling away again. 

"Thanks," Tom says and gives him a flustered smile. "I should probably sew it on before I lose it." 

"Yeah." Will nods, a sweet smile on his lips that never fails to make Tom’s lungs act up. He’s going to be the death of him one day with those dangerously friendly gestures, and he’s not going to mind one bit. "Anyway, you should probably get inside. I’ve kept you long enough." 

Joe greets him in the door, something less of a smile and more of a grin prominent on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song playing on the radio is Yesterday by the Beatles if anyone cares. I just think it’s nice


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brought to you by the button in Tom’s pocket

Tom dreams about Will the following night. 

When he wakes, his dream is nothing but fading, fragmented images lingering in the corners of his mind like old, forgotten memories. The morning sun slips through his thin curtains and bathes his room in warm, soft light. As he lies there in his bed, sleep having not completely let go of him just yet, a small smile plays on his lips and the pleasant image of Will lingers behind his eyelids. 

He shuts his eyes. 

Will still sits there in the grass when he does, back against a tree and eyes closed. Tom can tell he’s not asleep by the speed in which his chest rises and falls, and of the slightly tense muscles in his face alone. He’s merely resting; listening to the silence, letting his body take a break, and attempting to shut the world out for just a moment.

Tom lies in the soft grass beside him, hands folded on his stomach, and studies him like he has imagined himself doing many times before. His facial features are unbelievably vivid, from the shape of his lips to the texture of his skin, like he’s a photograph held before Tom’s eyes. The world around them, though, is blurry and incomplete like a painting yet to be finished. Colours have been placed down on the canvas, but are yet to be given a purpose.

Once does Will look at him in his dream, his vivid, blue eyes opening and fixating on Tom lying in the grass for an odd moment only. There’s a look in his eyes that reminds Tom very much of the uniform clad man in Will’s photograph, and he doesn’t quite like it. Will’s two, blue eyes aren’t deep oceans waiting to be explored, but mere puddles on the pavement after a rainy day. 

The air around them is as silent as can be, though in Tom’s mind voiceless words he isn’t sure who belong to replay like a record on repeat.

"Pick a man, bring your kit."

•••

When Tom finally slips out of the comfortable warmth of his bed, eyelids heavy with sleep and mind not all there just yet, his dream is long since forgotten and the images of Will resting in the grass are nothing but a blur. By the time he reaches his closet, he’s questioning whether or not he did have a dream, or if last night was yet another dreamless one. 

Having nothing on his agenda this particular morning but a nice walk that may or may not lead him to the door of a certain antique shop, he takes his sweet, sweet time getting ready. 

Tom spends a ridiculous amount of time digging around in his closet, studying and evaluating each and every piece of clothing he pulls out with a critical eye. He pulls out shirts that can’t have seen daylight in several years, scrunched up jumpers he’s completely forgotten about, and jeans with hilarious amounts of rips and tears. Occasionally he’ll come across items he must have borrowed - well, technically stolen - from Joe ages ago and never returned. He shoves them back in and tells himself he’ll return them at some point or another. 

In the end - God knows how much time later that is - he settles for something simple, casual and nothing too out there; a pair of regular jeans and a grey jumper. Sure, he could have picked this outfit out in approximately three seconds, but then he would never have picked the grey jumper tucked away in the far back would he? The tiny logo on the chest just adds a little something, or at least that’s what he tells himself to justify the fact that he’s spent at least half an hour digging in his closet like a miner looking for gold. 

Finding nothing but an old, half empty bottle of cologne that smells absolutely horrid abandoned in a drawer, he takes a quick trip to Joe’s room on his way to the stairs. 

A few boxes are scattered about, some full while others empty, and he has to manoeuvre past them to get to the small collection of bottles perched on his brother’s dresser. None of them smell as bad as the wretched thing he’d found in his own room, but none of them are really what he’s searching for. He wants something nice and subtle, something Will - hypothetically speaking, of course - would like. 

He settles for the least obnoxious smelling one, sprays it a few times here and there and nearly chokes when he inhales a great deal of it. 

When he eventually makes his way downstairs, he spots Joe sitting on the sofa. His eyes are glued to the laptop screen in front of him, piles of paper sit on the coffee table and it’s only Myrtle who seem to notice Tom coming down the stairs. She jumps down from her seat beside Joe to follow him into the kitchen, presumably hoping for something or another to eat. He tosses her a bit of bread as he‘s leaving the kitchen. 

Joe only looks up as Tom all but drops into the spot beside him on the sofa, leaning in to look at his screen and see what he’s up to. "What are you doing?" he asks when all he’s met with is his wallpaper - an adorable picture of Myrtle with a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. 

"Are you watching porn?" he then goes on to ask, earning him a shove that nearly sends his breakfast flying off his plate. The two pieces of bread with cheese are clinging onto his plate for dear life.

"I’m grading papers," he states as he reaches over to grab one of the pieces of bread hanging halfway off Tom’s plate and takes a bite. Tom would protest and pull it out of his hand, but it’s almost gone by the time he realises so he just lets him keep it. He could always snatch a nice, big apple from one of the neighbour’s trees on his way past their house. 

Joe pops the last piece into his mouth and brushes his hands together. It’s only then Tom grabs ahold of the last piece of bread - before Joe can snatch that as well and finish his entire breakfast - and starts eating. He only spares Myrtle a small piece as she trudges over to sit by his feet, staring up at him with those big, brown eyes. 

"Could you watch Myrtle today?" 

His brother looks up from the wall of text now filling his screen to look at him. "Where are you going?" 

"Just out for a walk." 

Myrtle’s tail instantly starts wagging in excitement. Joe, however, looks confused and puzzled. Lines appear between his brows and his eyes narrow as he gives Tom a once-over. When he does, realisation seems to strike him and a knowing grin forms on his lips. 

"Right. Sure I can." His tone is light, overly nice and nearly muffled by the shit eating grin on his face. Tom can tell he’s trying his hardest to keep it together and not say anything else other than those few words, failing miserably. 

"Tell Will I said hello."

Tom is quick to finish his breakfast, or what’s left of it anyway, standing to go put his plate in the sink - Myrtle not far behind - so he can leave before Joe gets to say anything else. Clearly, he isn’t quick enough. 

"Have fun on your date." He shuts the kitchen door behind him, not a moment after Myrtle has slipped through it. "But not too much fun, alright?"

Joe - the obnoxious little shit - is waiting for him by the front door when he emerges from the kitchen to go get ready to leave. Without as much as a single remark does he stand there and watch Tom slip on some of his nicer, cleaner pairs of trainers, put on his well used lined denim jacket and take a quick peek in the mirror. He adjusts some stray hairs, pats down his left chest pocket to find the button still in there and pulls out the pendant hidden underneath his jumper. 

"Just shoot your shot."

When he looks up, spotting Myrtle seated where her leash hangs out of the corner of his eye, Joe is looking at him in the mirror. "What?"

"The pining’s unbearable to watch." 

He opens his mouth to protest, to tell him to shut it already and wipe that stupid grin off his face, and to inform him that there is no "pining" going on. Sure, maybe he thinks Will is the nicest person he’s ever met, perhaps he enjoys tracing the bridge of his nose or the shape of his jawline with his eyes, and maybe he’s got a newfound love for William Blake and old rings now, but he is not "pining". Is he not allowed to just casually appreciate an attractive man with a great personality when he sees one? 

"Drop the poor lad a hint already." 

And Tom considers it for a moment, he really does, because he likes Will a lot, but he just can’t help but think about the possible - likely - outcomes and consequences. The discomfort of being rejected, the awkwardness and the evasive, apologetic gazes being a few of them. Does he really want to risk what he barely has with Will now for that? 

Joe must notice some sort of change in his expression, because he drops the grin and teasing look in his eyes like he’s been burned. 

"Will seems nice," he says and moves closer to rub his shoulder. "I doubt he’ll mind if feelings aren’t mutual." That’s comforting.

"Even if you do reek of perfume." 

Tom delivers a solid smack to his arm.

•••

Will isn’t there when Tom steps into the small antique shop on the corner. 

He notices that even as he stands outside, glancing through the window and not spotting Will anywhere. Still, the sign in the window is telling him the shop is in fact open, the lights inside are on and the door is unlocked, so he steps inside with confidence that he isn’t breaking in. Once inside, bell ringing as loudly as ever behind him, he proceeds to linger by the door and look around. 

The shop looks exactly the way it did the last time he was here, save for a missing item here and there. It feels as homey and welcoming as ever and when he finally does walk further into the shop, he feels as if he’s back at his own house again. 

"Sorry, I was having some lunch and I didn’t-." 

Tom turns to see Will standing in the doorway behind the counter, and perhaps he stares at him a bit too intently and a little too long. He’s wearing a knitted sweater today, one in a familiar cream colour with its sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he’s got a half eaten apple in his hand that nearly conceals his upturned lips. 

"Tom." His name uttered by Will sounds sweet like cherries and it makes his heart flutter. Oh God, he is pining, isn’t he? "You’re here early."

He clears his throat before he speaks, just in case is voice acts up and he makes a right fool of himself. "I don’t have work today," he explains, finally daring to approach the counter. "But I thought I’d stop by anyway." 

If even possible, Will’s smile grows, and yes, Tom is definitely pining.

•••

Will invites him into the back, the only part of the small shop Tom hasn’t seen and memorised down to the tiniest of details yet, and he feels as if he’s just been offered the British throne or an exclusive spot in heaven. Of course he accepts, because who would he be to say no to such an offer?

It’s a small, yet charming little room. The wallpaper is light and of a floral pattern that gives the room this bright, but quaint and homely feel to it. Tom wants to sit down in the dark brown sofa in the corner and pick up a poetry book from the nearby bookshelf, or maybe have a look at the record placed on the coffee table. He would do so if it weren’t for the papers scattered about and the box of items seated on the sofa. 

On the opposite side of the room is a small kitchen area. There’s a small sink with vanilla soap and a folded, cream coloured towel, a tiny fridge, as well as a grey kettle and an abandoned cup on the kitchen counter. 

"Do you want some tea?" Will asks, slipping past him in the doorway. He sits down on the floor to open up a cupboard and when he turns his head to look at Tom, all he gets is a mindless nod. 

The room is so unbelievably Will; the papers and the box, the books and the discarded record, the old charm and the faint scent of vanilla and tea with milk. It feels personal and merely standing in the doorway and looking around makes him feel like he’s intruding or encroaching, like he’s just stepped right into Will’s bedroom. He wonders if this is what Will’s mind would look like if it could be visualised. 

There’s the sound of water slowly beginning to boil and cups being moved about, but it’s Will’s voice which finally snaps him out of his thoughts. 

"Sorry, let me move this so you can sit."

Will is by the sofa now, gathering up the papers, setting the box of items on the floor and adjusting the dark red pillows, all the while he’s apologising profusely for the so called mess. It’s just some papers on a sofa and an abandoned cup on the kitchen counter is what it is, and Tom doesn’t mind it at all. If he wants to see a proper mess, he’ll just have to take a peek into Tom’s bedroom. It looks like a war zone in there. 

Tom takes a seat on the sofa while Will goes back to making them tea. It’s soft, softer than the green one out in the shop, and he comes to the conclusion that he likes this one a lot more. He takes a look at the small bookshelf standing on his right, just out of reach, and finds some familiar names. William Blake is one of them, showing up several times in fact, but there’s also Shakespeare - of course - as well as Rudyard Kipling. 

"Here." 

A steaming cup of tea is placed on the coffee table in front of him and when he looks up, he’s met with a gentle smile. Tom absentmindedly smiles in return and scoots over on the sofa to give Will more room. Their knees still brush when he takes a seat beside him, so this sofa must be significantly smaller than the other one. Tom doesn’t really mind that much, other than in the moment he nearly elbows Will in the ribs when he picks up his cup of tea. 

It’s silent as they drink the tea. Tom supposes this is where his brother would suggest him to "drop the poor lad a hint", and maybe he’s reconsidering it. Still, what would he even say?

"You smell nice."

It’s a line that could have easily slipped out of Tom’s mouth in a poor attempt to flirt, or at least hint at it, but it isn’t. After all, it’s not even he who says it. 

He looks up from his cup of tea to see Will turning a light shade of pink, unless his eyes are playing tricks on him after staring into his steaming tea for too long. Will is toying with his own cup, adjusting it in his hands, tracing the pattern on it and taking a small sip. 

"Thanks," Tom says, wondering whether or not the universe has listened in on him and dropped him a hint of its own. Is this a hint? Is it a coincidence? Perhaps Will just thinks he smells nice. "It’s my brother’s cologne." If it is a hint, he certainly ruined it now, didn’t he? Nothing like talking about family members while flirting, right?

Will laughs into his cup of tea. He’s got a shiny tea moustache when he sets it down again, which he licks off when Tom is certainly - maybe - not looking. 

"Yeah?" he goes on to say and Tom mindlessly nods, speaking before he can think of what to say. "He hasn’t got much of a taste, but it was either this or the seven year old bottle in my drawer that smells like actual petrol, with a hint of teen angst." 

Will laughs again, properly this time, and something in Tom’s chest squeezes extra tight and his heart skips a few extra beats. He can’t help but laugh with him. 

When their laughter eventually dies down, they go back to drinking their tea with milk and the comfortable silence takes over. Out of the corner of his eye, Will is looking at him and Tom thinks that maybe, just maybe, a hint might have been dropped.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see
> 
> Updates might be a little slow, as I’m in uni now, studying economics if anyone cares
> 
> But here’s a hint of angst, with more to come

Tom stays in the back of the small antique shop on the corner for several, innumerable hours, and he enjoys every second of it. 

The dark brown sofa they sit in is unbelievably soft and comfortable, the cup of tea Will refills for him several times is sweet on his tongue and warm between his hands, and Will is yet a bit reserved and quiet, but passionate and captivating nonetheless. 

He recites poems in ways that make Tom’s skin tingle and talks about them as if he wrote them all himself. Tom listens, no matter how much he disliked reading poetry at school and no matter how little he understands what he’s saying, because he doesn’t need to understand the effects of similes or metaphors, when he can just feel it all through Will’s carefully picked, beautiful words. He recounts old stories that remind Tom of nothing he has ever been through in his entire life, or will probably ever have to go through, yet he’s left with so much empathy and understanding, because Will can just make him feel every word he says. He tells him so much about himself, although not verbally, just through the way his eyebrows furrow or the way his gaze moves. 

There’s something about Will, Tom thinks as he watches Will leave to tend to yet another customer, though he can’t quite pin down what that something might be. 

He doesn’t stay to find the answer to that - at least not today - because morning has become afternoon, and afternoon has become noon. Once again does time appear and remind Tom that the concept does indeed exist, and once again does it separate them. Will looks at him with that familiar look of apology, guilt and the slightest hints of disappointment, and Tom knows what’s coming. He rises out of his seat before Will speaks.

"It’s getting late," Will begins, and proceeds to profusely apologise for having taken up so much of Tom’s time, for having wasted so much of his day and for having all but force fed him entire literary analyses and history lessons. Tom comes to learn that nearly six hours have passed, which he admits is quite a bit more than he would have guessed, but not at all surprising. 

Tom, as he so often does, smiles and tells him it’s fine. He always enjoys spending time with Will, and he lets him know that, because he doesn’t want him to feel guilty or ever so slightly at fault when that is anything but true. He would sit in here for another six hours if it meant another six hours spent with Will. Hell, he’d spend another sixteen-hundred hours on this sofa if he could, with only a cup of tea in his hand and only Will by his side for company. 

"I’ll drive you home," Will says, and who would Tom be if he said no to that?

•••

The drive to Tom’s house is silent, as it so often seems to be.

A faint, fresh and sweet citrusy smell lingers beneath the ever so slowly fading scent of Tom’s absolutely awful perfume - although it’s really Joe’s - in the air, a song Tom could never even begin to guess the name of plays oh so quietly and inaudibly on the radio and as the sun nears the horizon, finishing its job for the day, the light slowly dims. 

It’s nice, Tom thinks; the comfortable silence, the relaxing aura of a day nearing its end and a city about to close its eyes and rest for a moment, and the presence of Will. It feels right. He feels content. Perhaps just a little bit in love as well; in the way the descending sun hits Will’s features, in the way Will sits so relaxed and casual, yet concentrated, though he’s mostly just a bit in love in the way Will just is in general, really. 

And Will feels something relatively similar, he hopes.

Will parks the car right by the door this time, only a couple of strides away, and it’s dark by that point. The only source of light in the dark, quiet car is the lamp by the front door. It glows faintly and flickers every once in a while. He can’t quite see Will, but by now Tom has admittedly memorised his every feature, so he might as well be looking at him in broad daylight. 

The light in the car is switched on, and Will’s face and all its features are right before him in all their glory in an instant.

"I had a good time," Will says and smiles at him now that they can finally see each other. "Normally I spend the majority of my day alone," he continues. Tom doesn’t say anything, but he nods and smiles ever so slightly as if to tell him that he is listening and that he wants him to go on. "Which is nice, but it gets a bit lonely sometimes, being stuck with myself and some old antiques all day." Will chuckles softly. It’s music to Tom’s ears, no matter how cliché that might sound. It’s all the poetry he presumes. 

"I appreciate that you stop by, is what I’m trying to say." There’s a hand on his knee now, warm and gentle. Tom doesn’t mind it at all. "I enjoy having you around."

It takes Tom a moment to reply, because he’s a bit flustered really. He wasn’t expecting any sentimental confessions right now. His heart was not ready for this, nor his voice apparently. "I like being there," he eventually says, able to form words now that the hand is gone from his knee. His skin still tingles. "I never knew just how interesting antiques and poetry could be. I’ve probably learned more from you than I’ve ever learned at school." 

He dares reach a hand out and poke Will’s arm. The fabric of his knitted sweater is oh so soft beneath his fingers. "You better have more stories and poems ready by next time I stop by, yeah?" 

Will smiles, with white, perfect teeth this time. "I’m sure I can find some by then." 

It’s then silent again, and if Tom really concentrates, he can hear the song on the radio. He doesn’t, though, instead unbuckling his seatbelt and adjusting his jacket, wordlessly letting the other know he’s about to leave the car now and that if he just so happens to want to say anything else, now is the time. 

It’s silent for another moment and Tom reaches for the door, figuring it’s time to finally leave now, get inside and give Myrtle a good petting, maybe find something to eat and put a film on.

"Tom." He stops and turns to see Will still looking at him. "Could I ask you something?"

Tom would be lying if he said his heart rate doesn’t pick up at his words, because ask him what? The options are endless, ranging from the question of whether he’s stopping by tomorrow, to something else he could only dream of him asking. Whatever it might be, he nods. "Of course."

"Do you ever dream of..." Will lets go of the steering wheel to make some sort of gesture Tom isn’t quite sure what is supposed to mean. "Things." Tom is anything but sure of what he means by that. "Things" is a broad term to say the least. Does he mean "things" as in items, a term in relation to something unspeakable, or just things in general? 

"I’m not sure I follow," he says, brows furrowed and body now turned completely towards Will who looks ever so slightly troubled by something. "Things?" Will shrugs his shoulders. "Odd things, I suppose." After several moments of looking everywhere but at Tom, he meets his gaze again. "And so vivid to the point they feel real."

"You mean like nightmares?" Tom asks, but continues before he can answer. "I guess everyone has dreams like that once in a while, right?" 

"I guess so."

Once again it’s silent, save for the nearly inaudible music on the radio and Myrtle’s faint, presumably annoyed barking from inside the house. Tom isn’t sure whether this is his cue to leave or not. He doesn’t want to leave if Will wants to continue to talk, and he’s not about to say no to a few more minutes spent with Will, but he doesn’t want to waste Will’s time either. 

"Do you dream of, uh, things?" Tom asks, and he has to admit that he isn’t quite sure what he’s asking, yet to figure out what these so called "things" are exactly. "Sometimes, yes," Will says with a gentle nod of his head. 

"Nice things?" 

An odd moment passes. Lines form on Will’s forehead, his lips form a thin line and a rather somber look fills his evasive eyes. Will shakes his head. 

The hand Tom reaches out is hesitant and careful, as to not scare the other away somehow, and he gently squeezes his shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, and tilts his head ever so slightly in an attempt to meet Will’s gaze again, smile reassuringly at him and assure him that he can talk to him about whatever might be troubling him, because they’re friends now after all, right? 

The somber look is still there, one which makes Tom’s heart ache in concern and worry. Coating it is an oddly familiar, glossy surface reminiscent of the thousand yard stare of the man in Will’s photographs. If one just squints a bit, Will looks exactly like the photographed man, and Tom doesn’t like it. 

Will shakes his head again. "Not really. Not now, at least." He clears his throat and straightens in his seat, a tight smile forming on his lips and Tom’s hand falling back in his lap. "You should be getting inside. It’s late." 

Tom lingers by his front door long after Will’s car is out of sight, nothing but the flickering lamp giving him any light. Engraved in his mind is the troubled, strange look in Will’s otherwise bright and friendly eyes, and on his mind are a myriad of questions. 

What are the horrible things that Will dreams of?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see. Finished this just now

Joe moves into his new flat nearly a week later. 

It’s quite small in size compared to the big, typical English country side house he grew up in, and lacks the tall fruit trees and the colourful garden he has grown oh so fond of over the years. However, as he stands here in what is to be his new home now, it feels right. Over the course of these last couple of days spent essentially building and perfecting this little nest of his; painting the walls a soft cream colour, placing some familiar flowers in the windowsills and tucking some old photos of a baby faced Tom in the drawer of his desk, it has gained a faint homely feel to it that he is certain will grow as time passes. 

Late Sunday is when he dares to say his new home is done, for now at least. He’s sure he‘s forgotten something or another, be it a pillow or a chair, but until then, it’s done. By that time, Tom, who has reluctantly - or so he says at least - been stopping by everyday to help all of this eventually come together, is curled up on the dark grey sofa in the corner of the living room, as deep in sleep as a hibernating bear, and the flat is softly lit as the sun has gone for the day. 

Before retreating to his new bedroom for what he believes is a well deserved rest, he tosses the blanket he finds folded in one of the armchairs over his sleeping brother. He tucks him properly in, though; makes sure every limb is covered, pushes the rogue strands of hair tickling his face and just about manages to slip a pillow under his head without waking him. He eyes the necklace safely fastened around Tom’s neck. The material trapping and preserving the delicate, little cherry blossoms inside is smooth, the chain is sturdy and well made, and Joe nearly rolls his eyes. 

Pining idiots. 

He tucks the necklace into Tom’s jumper, just like he has seen him done a plethora of times before by now, and finally goes to bed.

•••

When Tom opens his eyes, he’s somewhere else entirely. He’s someplace far away and unfamiliar; with grassy fields stretching towards the horizon, sparse and shaky trees clinging to the earth for comfort, and a fragile silence suggesting something far more sinister than the surface of serenity would lead him to believe. It’s a foreign place - in more ways than one - yet oddly familiar, just a tad bit too vivid to be a product of his own imagination, and he feels as if he should know where he is.

Will is there with him, as he so often is nowadays, and despite whatever lingers in his subconscious, crawling under his skin, prickling his muscles and toying with his pulse, Tom feels comforted and assured in his presence. There is an aura of familiarity, of calmness and of attentiveness about him that lets him shut his eyes and be vulnerable for just a moment. He knows Will is right there with him, and he feels as if he should know where that is exactly.

The silence inevitably cracks like a frail branch.

"Pick a man, bring your kit."

•••

Tom stops by the small antique shop on the corner on his way home the following morning, when the sun all but lingers on the horizon and the frost formed during the chilly night yet hasn’t melted, crunching and crackling under his feet. His breath is visible in the air, and even after slipping through the door into the warm shop his muscles still tense and his body still shivers, though if it’s the weather, the loud bell ringing above his head or the anticipation coursing through him, he doesn’t know.

From the far back of the shop, past all the shelves and antiques, he hears faint music and without thinking twice he starts walking. It’s a song he’s never heard before, sung by voices he doesn’t recognise, but it’s nice and he can’t wait to ask which one this is. When he gets closer he hears the familiar sounds of records being shuffled and fingers tapping the rhythm of the music on the floor, and not a moment later does he spot Will. 

Will sits on the floor by the record player, a half full cup of tea perched on the coffee table and an array of records scattered about him on the wooden floor. He appears to be somewhere far away in his own world, because his gaze never leaves the records before him as Tom approaches. His steps are cautious as to not disturb him, and he takes a seat in the nearest chair to listen to the song playing on the record player and let his eyes merely rest on Will. 

His knitted sweater is a dark red colour today, a red that reminds Tom of sweet cherries hanging in tall trees, of raspberries staining the skin of his palms and of strawberries melting on his tongue. It brings out the faint redness on Will’s defined cheekbones, the blue shadows under his eyes and the rare spot appearing on his skin, and he looks like a piece of art worthy of the best spot at the most prestigious of galleries. He looks so peaceful and undisturbed as he sits there, completely in his element; surrounded by beautiful antiques and grasping a cup of warm tea as a song plays in the background on the record player. 

Watching him, Tom feels as if he’s finally found his way home after being gone for a long, long time.

A few moments pass by and the song finally ends, the record player moving on to the next one after a brief pause. Only then does Will seem to arrive back in this world, gaze finally leaving the scattered records to meet Tom’s. There’s a brief look of surprise in his eyes, and Tom worries he might have just made it weird between them, showing up like this and watching him, but it’s gone again as quickly as it appeared. It’s replaced with the warm, welcoming smile that makes Tom’s head feel all fuzzy and his breath become uneven and unpredictable. 

"Tom," he says with such pure delight, "when did you arrive?" 

"Only a little while ago," Tom replies and watches Will move to turn the record player off, removing the record to place it back in its sleeve. "Was on my way home and thought I’d stop by to see you." 

Will smiles to himself as he gathers up all the records from the floor, forming a neat pile which he gets up to place on a nearby shelf. "I was hoping you’d come," he says when his back is turned, and Tom is glad it is because the way in which he blushes at that is embarrassing. "Yeah?" he inquires, slipping his jacket off his shoulders to drape it over the back of the nearest chair. He’s certainly not cold anymore.

"Yeah." Will turns to pick up the discarded cup of - what must now be ice cold - tea and takes an experimental sip. His nose scrunches up ever so slightly at the taste, or perhaps lack thereof, and he looks at Tom. "Do you want anything to drink?"

Tom follows him into the back of the shop, making sure to grab his jacket, and he pauses in the door for a moment while Will goes to boil some water. It looks just like it did last time, just as cozy and homely, though perhaps a bit less messy. The box of antiques yet to be placed out in the shop is nowhere to be seen, the papers previously scattered about rest in a neat pile on the coffee table, and the books and records in the shelves seem to have been shuffled about and organised. He takes a seat in the dark brown sofa and averts his gaze to Will. 

"Early shift?" Will gazes back at him from where he’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest and kettle bubbling and boiling away beside him. He must notice the way Tom’s brows furrow ever so slightly in confusion, because he continues; "You said you were on your way home." 

"Oh, no. A bit early for that." Tom shakes his head and watches as Will reach for the kettle to pour the now boiling water into the two cups standing on the counter. If it weren’t for his plans to go see Will, he’d most definitely still be curled up on his brother’s sofa for a couple more hours at least. "I just came from Joe’s new flat," he explains, "helped him settle in and all that, and ended up spending the night."

"Has he moved far?" Will asks as he gently places a full cup of tea down in front of him on the coffee table, careful as to not spill anything. He then takes a seat beside Tom on the rather small sofa, and normally he would notice the way their shoulders brush or the familiar smell of paper and vanilla in the air, but Tom can’t take his eyes off the cup placed before him. 

There’s a heart on his cup. 

Tom blinks a couple times, swallows nothing but a bit of air, and merely sits there for an odd moment before coming to his senses. "No, no, not far." He mindlessly picks up the cup with both hands and takes a small sip of his tea. It tastes just like it did last time, and the time before that, and so on and so forth, yet different at the same time somehow. Sweeter and warmer - though the latter might just be his own doing - and Tom can’t quite explain it.

He glances at Will to see him quietly sipping his own tea, gaze somewhere else entirely, and he has to look at his cup again because he just has to be seeing things. Their eyes meet when he looks up from the cup in his hands for the third time, and Will smiles softly. 

"Do you like the tea?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Will is listening to is Vincent by Don McLean bc that is one nice song


End file.
